She hoped the lights would become hot enough to melt her into the floor. She put down the sketch-books and apparatus she had brought with her, pulled out her stool, and sat down. The command was sullenly obeyed, for the fellow did not appear to relish the rating. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. His hat was placed upon one pole, his wig on another. “I will come—with pleasure,” she said, “if you will promise to treat me as a new acquaintance—not to refer to—Paris—at all. ” “That will follow,” said Kitty Brett—“that will follow.
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