Ruth's mind was fertile soil; for a long time to come it would be something of a hothouse: green things would spring up and blossom overnight. “You have changed somehow—and you certainly are less friendly. What else was there lurked in shadows and deep places; if in some mood of reverie it came out into the light, it was presently overwhelmed and hustled back again into hiding. She came in now with an air of reserved solicitude. The theme was a masquerade. Gradually McClintock shifted the burden to Spurlock's shoulders and retired among his books and music rolls. That wrappered life, as you call it—we’ve burned the confounded rags! Danced out of it! We’re stark!” “Stark!” echoed Ann Veronica. Her mind turned and accused itself of having been cold and hard. There he was, standing with a group of men who she presumed to be the other richest men in the world.
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