How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. “I don’t think our engagement can go on,” she plunged, and felt exactly that loss of breath that comes with a dive into icy water. “To Paris! But why? What do you hope to discover there?” “I do not know,” he answered, “but I am going to see David Courtlaw. By a tacit agreement they ignored the significant thing between them, ignored the slipping away of the ground on which they had stood together hitherto. The girl had told him distinctly that her name was Anna. It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. She had come to despise those who were fertile out of pure jealousy, but could not admit it to herself. All at once she realised that Kimble had halted, leaning heavily against the wall. B.
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