“We took the short cut to Westmacotts’. There it was, the lath and plaster house, the farm buildings, the double oast-house at the corner of the big black barn, simmering, hazy and mellow, in the summer evening. A farm-hand, carrying a great truss of hay on a pitchfork across his shoulder, touched his cap to Ruth as he passed. There was no sign of Westmacott. “‘Where ...’ I began, but changed my question. ‘Where are the children?’ “‘I left them over with mother before I came away this morning,’ she answered. “We went into the house, into the kitchen, the same kitchen, unchanged. “She took refuge in practical matters. “‘Will you wait there while I take off my things and get the tea?’ “I sat down like a man in a dream while she disappeared upstairs. I was quite incapable of reflection, but dimly I recognised the difference between this clean, happy room of bright colours and shining brasses, and the tawdry, musty flat I had penetrated that morning, and the contrast spread itself like ointment over a wound. “Ruth returned; she had taken off her hat and had covered her London clothes by a big blue linen apron with patch pockets. Her sleeves were rolled up to the elbow; I saw the smooth brown arm with the delicate wrist and shapely hand. “‘You’ll want your tea,’ she said briskly. “I had had nothing to eat since breakfast. “You told me once in a letter that you had been to tea with Ruth, so you know the kind of meal she provides: bread, honey, scones, big cups, and tea in an enormous teapot. She laid two places only, moving about, severely practical, but still quivering with that suppressed excitement, still tense with that unfaltering determination. “‘It’s ready,’ she said at length, summoning me. “I couldn’t eat, for the emotion of that meal alone with her was too strong for me. I sat absently stirring the sugar in my cup. She tried to coax me to eat, but her solicitude exasperated my overstrained nerves, and I got up abruptly. “‘It’s no good,’ I said, ‘I must know. What is it, Ruth? What had you to tell me?’ “The moment had rushed at her unawares; she looked at me with frightened eyes; her determination, put to the test, hesitated. “I went over to her and stood before her. “‘What is it, Ruth?’ I said again. ‘You haven’t brought me down here for nothing. Hadn’t you better tell me before your husband comes in?’ “‘He won’t come in,’ she said, hanging her head so that I could only see the wealth of her hair and her little figure in the big blue apron. “‘How do you know?’ I asked. “‘He isn’t here.’ “‘Where is he, then?’ “She raised her head and looked me full in the face, no longer frightened, but steady, resolute. “‘He has left me,’ she said. “‘Left you? What do you mean? For good?’ “‘Yes. He’s left me, the farm, and the children; he’s never coming back.’ “‘But why? Good Heavens, why?’ “‘He was afraid,’ she said in a low voice. “‘Afraid?’ “‘Yes. Of me. Oh,’ she broke off, ‘sit down and I will tell you all about it.’