It was almost
sardonic in its monotonous persistence.
"Travel is not all, believe me, Miss Devlin," was the indolent reply.
"Perhaps the simpler life is the happier. The bandbox is not the worst
that may come to one--when one is born to it. I am not sure but it is the
best. I doubt that when one has had the fever of travel and the world,
the bandbox is permanently habitable again."
Mrs. Falchion was keen; she had found her opportunity.
On the result of this duel, if Ruth Devlin but knew it, depends her own
and another's happiness. It is not improbable, however, that something of
this was in her mind. She shifted her chair so that her face was not so
much in the light. But the belt of sunlight was broadening from Mrs.
Falchion's feet to her dress.
"You think not?" Ruth asked slowly.
The reply was not important in tone. Mrs. Falchion had picked up a paper
knife and was bending it to and fro between her fingers.
"I think not. Particularly with a man, who is, we will say, by nature,
adventurous and explorative. I think if, in some mad moment, I determined
to write a novel, it should be of such a man.
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