A black-garbed young lad leapt out and let down the steps. “Exactly. The sing-song girl, seeing Ruth, extended her hands and began to chatter rapidly. “I shall never be able to thank you. Care for a hundred up?” Ennison shook his head. Gay, was a stout, good-looking, good-humoured man, about thirty-six, with a dark complexion, an oval face, fine black eyes, full of fire and sensibility, and twinkling with roguish humour—an expression fully borne out by the mouth, which had a very shrewd and sarcastic curl. You represented to us the immaculate Briton, the one Englishman who typified the Saxonism, if I may coin a word, of our race.
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