The evenings were beginning to draw out, and it would not be dark for an hour. Then blackness. Rubbishy novels and pernicious rascals. They vanished through the doorway. Que pasa con ustedes?” He returned in bad Spanish. He had been dreaming of Ruth—an old recurrency of that dream he had had in Canton, of Ruth leading him to the top of the mountain. A little inn flying a Swiss flag nestles under a great rock, and there they put aside their knapsacks and lunched and rested in the mid-day shadow of the gorge and the scent of resin. I expect Mr. Diedermeyer, sweetheart? He just went in. It’s just hard to keep things from her. He wasn't sure, but he thought he saw a faint shudder stir her shoulders. I did not lay any traps for her.
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