He was not able to recognize, as the doctor did, that she was only a natural woman. And Ramage too—about Ramage there would always be that air of avidity, that air of knowledge and inquiry, the mixture of things in his talk that were rather good with things that were rather poor. He made the universe on those lines. "Harkye, Sir," rejoined Darrell; "one word before I move. Those awful chairs!" After dinner the spinsters proceeded to inscribe their accustomed quota of postcards, and Ruth was left to herself. Certain reserves went down on both sides. She was vehemently impatient—she did not clearly know for what—to do, to be, to experience. She fell with a plop onto her rear end in the mud and sat dumbly like a statue, water eddying around her. "What's that to you?" retorted Jack, surlily. The sergeant had not seen it for he understood nothing of what she told him.
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