Even in his fevered hours, so the girl had said, his tongue had not betrayed him. A faint gleam of returning colour gave her at once a more natural appearance. A new inexplicable madness that urged him to shrill ironically the story of his coat—to take it off and fling it at the feet of any stranger who chanced to be nigh. But his role was altered, and he was now playing the bridegroom in this remarkable drama. 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. “One runs about,” said Ann Veronica. “I would like to go home,” she cried, “to please her.
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