Life is a patchwork of impressions, of vanishing personalities. Ruth flashed in and out of the sunshine; and he took note of the radiant nimbus above her head each time the sunshine touched her hair. The music took hold of her slowly as her eyes wandered from the indistinct still ranks of the audience to the little busy orchestra with its quivering violins, its methodical movements of brown and silver instruments, its brightly lit scores and shaded lights. And the woollen-draper departed. "I was in the right, you see, father," observed Thames, smiling; "Jack has done his task. "I'm not going to get rid of you just yet.
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