“I saw her face, and her beauty began to swim in front of my eyes, and a roaring began in my ears like a man who is breathing chloroform. Swimming, swimming, all the room and the light, and I heard my own voice as I had never heard it before,— “‘Ruth! Ruth! you must come with me.’ “‘Come with you?’ “‘Yes, now, at once. Before your husband comes back. Get your things. I give you five minutes.’ “She cried,— “‘Oh, but the baby?’ “‘I’ll look after it while you go upstairs.’ “‘No, no,’ she said, ‘not now; afterwards?’ “I understood. “‘Take it with you.’ “‘But, my dear, I’ve three children!’ “The divinity was vanishing from the room, the sunlight grew flat and cold. We stared at one another. I heard Westmacott’s voice out in the yard. I said desperately,— “‘Let me tell him!’ “‘Oh, no!’ she cried shrinking, ‘no, no, no.’ “‘You’re afraid,’ I taunted her. “‘What if I am? Please go.’ “‘Alone?’ “‘Please, please go.’ II “You want to know if I went? I did, and in the yard I met Westmacott, who discussed with me the prospects of the season. He was particularly affable, and I did my utmost not to appear absent-minded. I suppose that I succeeded, for his affability increased, culminating in an invitation to join him in a glass of ale within the house. I was dismayed, and protested that I had no time, also—quite untruthfully—that since the war I had given up drink of all kinds. He urged me. “‘You’ll not refuse to taste my wife’s cider?’ “I thought that I cried out,— “‘Man alive, I come straight from imploring your wife to come away with me,’ but as his expression remained the same, and neither glazed into horror nor blazed into fury, I suppose that the words, though they screamed in my head, never materialised on my lips. “I was helpless. He led me back, odious and hospitable, into the kitchen where Ruth still stood rhythmically rolling the dough. The sun had gone behind a cloud, and the room, which had been so dazzling with its colours and its clarity, was dim, even to the red of the geraniums, even to the glow under the skin of Ruth. Dead, I thought, dead, dead. “Westmacott stood outside, stamping the clay from his boots, and calling to his wife for cider. I winced from his heartiness, and from the tragic absurdity of my position. If only tragedy could be our lot, we should at least enjoy the consolation of the heroic, but in the comic tragedy to which Providence so delights in exposing us, there is no consolation. I was thankful that Westmacott did not know what a fool he was successfully making of me. “Ruth took down from the dresser an earthenware jug, and went through into the little back hall of the place. I watched her through the door which she had left open. She filled the jug at a great wooden barrel; the golden cider streamed out from the tap, and she held the jug with a precision and a steadiness of hand that made me marvel. Returning, she set it with two glasses on the table.