She was looking anxiously at the entrance to the restaurant. Will you find your destiny, I wonder, or will you go through life like so many others—a wanderer, knocking ever at empty doors, homeless to the last? Oh, if one could but find the way to your heart. Immediately she had spoken of the loose button he knew that henceforth he must show no concern over the disposition of that coat. You never saw him before yesterday. To many in that crowded solitude it came as an extraordinary relief. Ruth was inflammable; she would always be flaring up swiftly, in pity, in tenderness, in anger; she would always be answering impulses, without seeking to weigh or to analyse them. "Your answer, gem'men?" demanded Sharples. Perhaps these few words were the first real conscious words he had uttered in days.
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