She was discussing one of those modern advanced plays with a remarkable, with an extraordinary, confidence. He pictured himself visiting the girl in this shabby little home of her aunt’s—she had told him that it was shabby—and he recalled that delicious little smile with which she would surely greet him, a smile which seemed to be a matter of the eyes as well as the lips. He had nothing to guide him; for though the torches were blazing ruddily below, their gleam fell only on the side of the building. “What a hideous repertoire! If you are in earnest about wanting to earn money, why on earth don’t you accept an engagement here?” “An engagement?” she queried. But this calm was more awful than the previous roaring of the blast. He looked up to see an ancient coach making its ponderous way down the street. The lovers broke into passionate knowledge of themselves and each other, and then, a jarring intervention, came King Mark amidst the shouts of the sailormen, and stood beside them. “Father,” she cried, “I have to live!” He misunderstood her. All his interest in Ruth, all his care and solicitude, could now be translated into a single word—love. Howard Taber.
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