But perhaps he was right not to tell you the truth. His face was half hidden under a freshly pipeclayed sola topee—sun-helmet. “I gave your name. He would never be able to figure out that: all these miles from Cuba, and you could get a perfecto for thirteen cents. Here was the same Ruth who had left him a few minutes since: the same outwardly; and yet…! On the ninth day Spurlock was up and about; that is, he was strong enough to walk alone, from the companion to his chair, to lean upon the rail when the chair grew irksome, to join Ruth and his employer at lunch and dinner: strong enough to argue about books, music, paintings. “You ARE a female thing at bottom,” he admitted. “Mom, this is the girl I asked to Prom, Lucy.
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