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Her aunt had summoned up an altogether too vivid picture of her father as the masterful man, overbearing, emphatic, sentimental, noisy, aimless. He had been dreaming of Ruth—an old recurrency of that dream he had had in Canton, of Ruth leading him to the top of the mountain. “I think that I shall be the most unpopular man in London. The occasion is worth a dash of the grape, lad. The young fellow was almost as odd in his way as the girl was in hers. He seemed too noisy. What of madame, his wife?’ ‘You know more of her than me,’ the girl said with a look of scorn. ” She whispered to him. ‘Now then, Gerald, out with it. I’m behaving shockingly, I know.
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