***** Ruth and the doctor returned to the hotel at four. The road from Surbiton and Epsom ran under the arch, and, like a bright fungoid growth in the ditch, there was now appearing a sort of fourth estate of little redand-white rough-cast villas, with meretricious gables and very brassy windowblinds. “It couldn’t be. She's the boss. She padded up the stairs to the bedroom, finding that her sheets had been changed with a fresh pillow case to welcome her weary head. I cannot explain beyond that. Nothing but the publicity of the place and the recollection of that terrible constituency kept him from attempting some perfectly respectful but unmistakable evidence of his sympathy. I did not care—no woman really cares—to play the beggar maid to your King Cophetua. He dashed against the screen door before she could catch him and made the veranda.
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