It was only a matter of time. She could hear him from the lower floor as he locked the gates and drew up the wooden part of the bridge. Ruth was inflammable; she would always be flaring up swiftly, in pity, in tenderness, in anger; she would always be answering impulses, without seeking to weigh or to analyse them. She leaped to a world of shabby knowledge, of furtive base realizations. Whatever happened she need never return to that possibility. “You are wrong! I did not think you thought such things. Anyhow, he did not sentimentalize her. “Who did you live with before the Becks? I hear things. Take your pick, Mrs.
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