‘It is what my father intended. Shall we say at half-past seven?” She rose from her chair. ” She opened the car door for herself. From the window he saw The Tigress faring toward Copeley's! Then somebody was coming? Some political high muckamuck, probably. She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think. There was no disgust in Ruth's heart, only an infinite pity; for only the pitiful understand.
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