There was a round table covered, not with the usual “tapestry” cover, but with a plain green cloth that went passably with the wall-paper. “My dear girl,” he said, in a tone of patient reasonableness, “you are a mere child. "But what is an oath to you!" cried the widow, distrustfully. Ramage, regarding it and putting a well-booted foot up on the bottom rail. He lowered himself on to her. And yet—such is the buoyancy of youth—within a fortnight he began his first novel, pretending to himself that it was on Ruth's account.
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