It’s the rarest luck, the wildest, most impossible accident. He brightened as she took off her hood. Only last night she saw me, and there was horror in her eyes. He resumed his listening. He had put himself before the threshold of damnation; for Ruth was now a vestal in the temple. "Don't go, I beg of you!" she implored. Constance Widgett’s abundant copper-red hair was bent down over some dimly remunerative work—stencilling in colors upon rough, white material—at a kitchen table she had dragged up-stairs for the purpose, while on her bed there was seated a slender lady of thirty or so in a dingy green dress, whom Constance had introduced with a wave of her hand as Miss Miniver. A small brickbat was thrown, which struck Jonathan in the face. He himself, middle-aged, steeped in traditions of the City and moneymaking, very ill-skilled in all the lighter graces of life, as he himself well knew, could yet come to her invested with something of the halo of romance by the almost magical powers of an unlimited banking account. She pitted aspirants against each other in any way imaginable, with tests of science, math, and sometimes will alone. The wastrel, the ne'er-do-well, who went mostly nobly to a fine end.
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