‘Just listen to this. It’s really very wonderful. Fancy, the Patagonians always sleep with their mouths open. The Rev. Mr. Jones ascertained it for a fact, and he gives the following interesting description of it.’ ‘Don’t, John, for goodness’ sake!’ exclaimed Mrs. Adrian, freeing herself from Ruth’s embrace. ‘Have your Patagonians, and welcome, but don’t bother me with them. All I can say is, if the Rev. Mr. Jones went all the way to Patagonia to see the natives keep their mouths open, he’d have done more good by stopping in Whitechapel and teaching the natives there to keep their mouths shut.’ ‘My dear,’ said the old gentleman, smiling, ‘if you are so very caustic, I shall have to collect your observations and publish them.’ ‘Oh, I know what I say is ridiculous in your eyes, John. If I was a Patagonian woman, with a ring through my nose, you’d listen fast enough, I dare say, though I did talk in an outlandish language.’ ‘The Patagonian women, my dear Mary, do not wear rings through their noses, Mr. Jones, who lived among them——’ ‘More shame for him! I dare say he left his wife and children to the parish.’ Mr. Adrian was fairly roused on his favourite subject. He rushed with ardour to the defence of the Rev. Mr. Jones and the ladies of Patagonia. Mrs. Adrian replied with all the homely sarcasm of which she was mistress. Ruth, who knew of old that the duel would probably rage till supper-time, or till Mr. Adrian, exhausted, resigned the Patagonians to their fate, and sought refuge in the _Times_’ City article—a neutral ground, which Mrs. Adrian allowed him to enjoy in peace—was about to creep out and have a quiet half-hour in her little room by herself, when the servant entered with an announcement that a ‘young person and a dawg’ were at the door, asking for Miss Ruth. Ruth started up, and her cheeks went a burning crimson. It was Gertie come to warn her that Marston was in danger. What should she do? She stammered something, and was about to leave the room and go out to Gertie, when Mrs. Adrian stopped her. ‘Ruth!’ ‘Yes, mother.’ ‘If it’s _one_ of those horrid people you visit, don’t let her come in. We don’t want fevers here.’ ‘Oh, mother, there’s no fear of that. It’s little Gertie Heckett.’ ‘What, the model child of Seven Dials? Take your father’s overcoat out of the hall at once.’ ‘Mother!’ exclaimed Ruth, reddening, ‘how cruel you are! I shall bring her in, and you shall see her.’ ‘I shall have to sprinkle the room with camphor if you do. I expect we shall all be murdered in our beds; that’ll be the end of your encouraging all these bad characters.’ Ruth was out of the room and in the hall before her mother could finish the sentence. Gertie, shamefaced, trembling, and red-eyed, stood in the hall; Lion was close by her side, motionless as a statue. He wagged his tail as Ruth came towards him, but he never barked. He was a well-bred dog, and knew how to behave in a lady’s house.