"Ruth?" he called. It was ended. There were always parrots and parrakeets screaming in the fruit groves. They sat on a wooden bench that overlooked the less aromatic part of the lake, deeper and not as frequented by geese. “You will write to me, I am sure—and from the date of your letter I trust most earnestly that I may come back to my old place as “Your devoted friend, “WALTER BRENDON. ” “That is all very well,” said Ann Veronica, unheeded. But never would any so dishonour himself as to hand a fellow rogue over to the authorities. The road from Surbiton and Epsom ran under the arch, and, like a bright fungoid growth in the ditch, there was now appearing a sort of fourth estate of little redand-white rough-cast villas, with meretricious gables and very brassy windowblinds. .
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