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Time enough to do so when she has her affairs settled—if she can settle them. The next morning came a compact letter from her father. "Yale? Why, so am I. “Go to the far corner,” he said, “and sing the last verse of Les Petites. I asked you to go. A disagreeable young man, with red hair and a loose mouth, seated at the reporter’s table, was only too manifestly sketching her. " "A novelist?" cried Ruth, thrilling. Courtlaw for his true verdict, and he gave it me. If I’d meant it, my girl, you’d be dead meat.
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