Bravo!—the best cly-faker of 'em all couldn't have done it better. He fancied that the whole fabric of the bridge was cracking over head,—that the arch was tumbling upon him,—that the torrent was swelling around him, whirling him off, and about to bury him in the deafening abyss. Not far from him was a knot of lads drinking, swearing, and playing at dice as eagerly and as skilfully as any of the older hands. 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. Her hands wove through his black hair, luxuriating in its thickness. " "How do you spell the last name?" He spelt it. " "Oh, dear! how I should like to see him. If only out of loyalty to co-education one has to do that. Suddenly the Wastrel took hold of the edge and flung the table aside. . But underneath this tolerance there is always the vague hope that your manhood will someday reassert itself.
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