“I am tired,” she said, “and I want to rest. Ruth is not another man's wife; she is all your own, for better or for worse. Wood then led the way up a rather high and, according to modern notions, incommodious flight of steps, and introduced his guest to a neat parlour, the windows of which were darkened by pots of flowers and creepers. Of course, it really signified nothing in this careless part of the world that she was travelling alone. With a swirl of her floral chintz petticoats, she placed herself in the capacious window seat, accepted the glass Gerald handed to her, and smiled mischievously up at him. ‘You would read my mind?’ Gerald was pretty certain he already had, but he did not say so.
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