Why should they be? She and Ramage were friends, very good friends. The mortal youth in him, then, was fascinated, the thinker, the poet; from all sides Ruth attacked him, innocently. She propped a pillow against his padded headboard and sat herself into a stiff upright position, legs expertly crossed. A stack of chimneys, on the house above them, had yielded to the storm, and descended in a shower of bricks and stones. Then she sat down—uninvited— and looked from one to the other curiously. After he had eaten dinner with Ruth, he had gone to McClintock's; and he had heard music such as he had heard only in the great concert halls.
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