Gerald doubted there would be many eager suitors, even assuming the comtesse was keen to marry off her daughter to a foreign protestant. In a moment the brisk evening breeze caught the lank canvas and bellied it taut. "Your servant, Sir Rowland," said the stranger, ducking his head, as he advanced. They began the evening like usual, driving down highways and byways. Unless there was some real metal in the young fool, some hidden strength with which to breast the current, Ruth would become a millstone around his neck and soon he would become to her an object of pity and contempt. But days had now passed. They’re just a joyous softening of the outline—more beautiful than perfection.
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