Here is the first of them.'
He took a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it her. It was a
pencil-sketch, rough and unfinished, but wonderfully clever. Even Ruth
could appreciate that--and she was a prejudiced observer, for the
sketch was a caricature of herself. It represented her, drawn up to her
full height, with enormous, scornful eyes and curling lips, and the
artist had managed to combine an excellent likeness while accentuating
everything that was marked in what she knew had come to be her normal
expression of scorn and discontent.
'I didn't know you were an artist, Mr Vince,' she said, handing it
back.
'A poor amateur. Nothing more. You may keep it.'
'I have not the slightest wish to keep it.'
'You haven't?'
'It is not in the least clever, and it is very impertinent of you to
show it to me. The drawing is not funny. It is simply rude.'
'A little more,' said Mr Vince, 'and I shall begin to think you don't
like it. Are you fond of chocolates?'
Ruth did not answer.
'I am sending you some tomorrow.'
'I shall return them.'
'Then I shall send some more, and some fruit. Gifts!' soliloquized Mr
Vince. 'Gifts! That is the secret. Keep sending gifts. If men would
only stick to gifts and quarrelling, there would be fewer bachelors.'
On the morrow, as promised, the chocolates arrived, many pounds of them
in a lordly box.
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