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. " "Thank you! thank you!" faltered Jack, in a voice full of emotion. “Why—it’s—it’s you!” Amazement seemed to dry up the torrents of his speech. There were moments when she thought of turning upon this man and talking to him. ‘That’s my pet name. It was shameful, but again, her mother had prepared her for it. ‘You will not guess again?’ ‘No, no, I am quite out of ideas. “It was,” she admitted. She went across to the little window again, her back to Melusine.
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