“Ruthie, you mustn’t carry on so.” Then, “What has he done to you?” I asked fiercely. “You’re afraid.” “He’s guessed.” “Guessed what?” “What you never knew.” “I don’t understand.” “I can’t tell you. If you’d guessed, it might have made all the difference.” I did not dare to speak--her whisper was so ashamed. Her hand was hot in mine. She withdrew it. When I leant over her she shuddered, just as the trees had done when they knew the rain was coming, as though I were a thing to her both sweet and dreadful. She took my face between her hands, and yet shrank back from me. She delighted in and feared the thing she was doing. The rain volleyed against the carriage, shutting us in as with a tightly drawn curtain; yet, did I look up, through the gray mist the tepid gold of the sun was shining. “Ruthie, it seems almost too good to be true that we’re alone at last together--to have you all to myself.” “Did you ever want me, Dannie?” “_Did I ever want you!_” “But as much as you wanted her?” “Differently, yes.” “You poor boy. And you didn’t get either of us.” “Couldn’t be helped, Ruthie. That’s life--to be always wanting and never getting. But I have you now and, perhaps, one day----” “But how can you? She’s married.” “One can’t tell. Things come unexpectedly. I didn’t expect half-an-hour ago that I’d be with you.” She fell to asking me little stabbing questions. When I only answered her vaguely, “Don’t let’s start with secrets,” she implored me. “But it’s five years--there’s so much to explain.” “Yes--on both sides.” “You seemed--seemed to dislike him,” I said. “I never understood----” She took me up quickly. “Nor did I. Don’t let’s talk about it--not yet, Dante.” So I told her about my doings, the book I was writing and the little daily round at Woadley; and then I told her of why I had quarreled with my father. “But he let me marry Halloway, and you’ve never----” I laughed. “Ah, but no matter what Halloway did as a bachelor, he was discreet when it came to marriage.” She drew me forward to the light; doubt was in her eyes. “But you--you’re unhappy too.” “I’ve gained everything I played for; I played to lose.” “Everything?” “I didn’t deserve Vi. And I didn’t deserve you; if I had, I shouldn’t have lost you.” Not until I had replied did she realize how much she had told me. She was not happy! I wanted to ask her questions, so many questions--questions which I had no right to ask, nor she to answer. “And you--you have no children?” She hesitated. “No.” I rubbed the damp from the panes. We were in Stoke Newington. The storm was over; streets and roof-tops shone as with liquid fire. Children going home from school, were laughing and playing. They might have been myself and Ruthie of years ago. “They won’t see me,” I warned her. “Who?” “Folks at Pope Lane.” “They’re not there. Only Hetty’s left to take care of the house. They’ve gone away for a few days.”