I'm one of those unfortunate duffers who have too much imagination—the kind who build their own chimeras and then run away from them. Drink, and no sustaining food. It was at breakfast on this day that he told Ruth he had sent to Batavia for some dresses. Spurling, who had been hastily compounding another bowl of punch. "Ah!" he exclaimed, "a letter, beginning 'dearest Aliva,'—that's your mother's name, Thames. ‘You will keep yourself utterly quiet,’ he instructed, a growl in her ear as they headed for the door. And her mother, looking unusually alert and hectic, wore cream and brown also, made up in a more complicated manner.
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