A delicate flush of colour streamed into her cheeks. Chapter XI THE PUZZLEMENT OF NIGEL ENNISON Nigel Ennison walked towards his club the most puzzled man in London. He was a just man, and he did not care to start any thunder which was not based upon fairness. But I must—I ought—” “I MUST talk about this. He went in and leaned, panting, against one wall. " "Nonsense," returned Jonathan gruffly. He made Hong-Kong at dusk: wet, hungry, and a bit groggy for the want of sleep; but he was in no wise discouraged. "Ruth!" She had gone to the door, aimlessly, without purpose. She was never able to trace the changes her attitude had undergone, from the time when she believed herself to be the pampered Queen of Fortune, the crown of a good man’s love (and secretly, but nobly, worshipping some one else), to the time when she realized she was in fact just a mannequin for her lover’s imagination, and that he cared no more for the realities of her being, for the things she felt and desired, for the passions and dreams that might move her, than a child cares for the sawdust in its doll. When she came in after dinner that night, Ruth was no longer an interesting phenomenon, something figuratively to tear apart and investigate: she was talismanic. I'll see her myself; and that's more than she bargained for, I'll be sworn. Old Jersey and Hampshire family, the Pellissiers, and a capital stock, too, I believe.
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