“Ritter’s!” said Ramage to the driver, “Dean Street. "And you will answer it frankly?" "Certainly. On that night,—that fatal night,—Winifred crushed all the hopes that were rising in my heart. ” He looked at her, his eyes illuminated by the glow of the dashboard. The rest of his attire was nondescript. And Ritter’s, too, was very amusing and foreign and discreet; a little rambling room with a number of small tables, with red electric light shades and flowers. I—well, I lost my temper. It seemed to make her sister downcast beyond any precedent.
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