Both were very happy, Jack because the scandal he had been
dreading, since he had last looked into her eyes, had escaped her
ears, and Ruth because of all the young men she had met in her
brief sojourn in New York this young Mr. Breen treated her with
most consideration.
While the two were making their way through the crowded streets,
Jack helping her over the crossings, picking out the drier spots
for her dainty feet to step upon, shielding her from the polluting
touch of the passing throng, Miss Felicia had resumed her sewing
--it was a bit of lace that needed a stitch here and there--and
Peter, dragging a chair before the fire, had thrown himself into
its depths, his long, thin white fingers open fan-like to its
blaze.
"You are just wasting your time, Peter, over that young man," Miss
Felicia said at last, snipping the end of a thread with her
scissors. "Better buy him a guitar with a broad blue ribbon and
start him off troubadouring, or, better still, put him into a suit
of tin armor and give him a lance.
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