David drew the slender figure to his side and kissed the sweet, shy lips.
"When you are my wife," he said, "and come to take a closer and tenderer interest in my welfare—"
"Could I take a deeper interest than I do now, David?"
"Well, perhaps not. But you will find that a good many people find fault with me. You have no idea what the critics say sometimes. They declare that I am an impostor, a copyist; they say that I am—"
"Let them say what they like," Ruth laughed. "That is mere jealousy, and anybody can criticise. To me you are the greatest novelist alive."
There was only one answer to this, and Ruth broke away, declaring that she must go at once.
"But you will come this afternoon?" she said. "And you will make Lord Littimer like you. Some people say he is queer, but I call him an old darling."
"He will like me, he is bound to. I've got something, a present for him, that will render him my slave for life. Au revoir till the gloaming."
* * * * *
The dew was rising from the grass, the silence of the perfect morning was broken by the uneasy cries of the dogs. From their strange whimpering Williams felt pretty sure that something was wrong. At most times he would have called the dogs to him and laid into them with a whip, for Williams knew no fear, and the hounds respected his firm yet kindly rule.