CHAPTER III. " "You're agitating yourself unnecessarily, Joan," returned Wood, in a soothing voice. And yet—such is the buoyancy of youth—within a fortnight he began his first novel, pretending to himself that it was on Ruth's account. He did not explain what had happened to her. Wood required little pressing. He still watched her and questioned her. Little things, almost impalpable, had happened to justify that doubt; something in his manner had belied his words. In the genuinely dissipated face there was always a suggestion of slyness in ambush, peeping out of the wrinkles around the eyes and the lips. Beyond was a narrow bridge, crossing a circular building, at the bottom of which lay a deep well.
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