She had to do her thinking at home—under inspection. 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. Stanley was inclined to think the censorship should be extended to the supply of what he styled latter-day fiction; good wholesome stories were being ousted, he said, by “vicious, corrupting stuff” that “left a bad taste in the mouth. If he adhered to this policy—to keep away from her inconspicuously—she would forget the name by night, and to-morrow even the bearer of it would sink below the level of recollection. A row of magnificent, and even then venerable, elms threw their broad arms over this pleasant spot. I cannot tell you much about it, but my bad times are over for the present. "You have forgotten your knife, Mr. " Sir Rowland caught at a chair for support, and passed his hand across his brow, on which the damp had gathered thickly.
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