THE LUCK OF THE IRISH
last word in irony. Petty squabbles were frequent enough; but let one of them get into financial difficulties, and every poor, slim purse came forth. Could he ever go back there? He doubted it. Somehow his horizon had broadened mysteriously. He had stepped out of the humdrum, and he knew that only a reverse in fortune could force him back to it. It was in no sense snobbery. It was simply that these old acquaintances had dropped out of his orbit, or, to be exact, he had been switched into a new one and had not quite steadied himself to the speed of it.
He went to his chair, hoping to find her and yet relieved when he found her not. He was curious to learn how the sight of her would affect him in the daylight, now that he was assured that he loved her, but there was a generous portion of dread mixed with this curiosity. She was up and about somewhere, "for some new books lay on her steamer rug. Baedekers; he knew that flaming red cover tolerably well by now.
To take a book from the chair of a friend during that friend's temporary absence could in no wise be looked upon as an indiscretion. William went over to the girl's chair and picked up the three volumes: Southern Italy, Central Italy, and Northern Italy. Idly he turned the cover of one book. On the fly-leaf he discovered a bit of writing—"Ruth Warren, her book." The two other volumes contained this name also. The signatures had been written quite recently, probably that very morning. No doubt this was her real name.
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