Ernie watched the picture-play with absorbed interest. A great while ago he had known both actor and actress intimately, and still took an impersonal interest in them and their doings. Then the little man's voice came to him across the stream, sharp and strident. He had a peculiar swaggering motion of the head and shoulders as he spoke, truculent yet furtive, that Ernie knew well; and all the time his eyes were wandering uneasily about the Brooks, searching for enemies. "You'll ask me to marry you next!" he sneered. "_ME marry YOU!_" The young woman rose, ominous and passionate. She stood in her tan-coloured gabardine, like some noble barbarian at bay, a creature of the earth and elements, yet conquering them. She seemed to tower above the little man, and in her hand was the orange turban like a sling that swung heavily to and fro. Ernie watched the scene with fascinated eyes, and, most of all, that bright slow-swinging thing that sagged so dreadfully. The little man watched its pendulum-like action too. He did not seem to like the curious slow swing of it, or the look upon the face of the swinger, for he withdrew a pace or two. "Any more of it," said the girl, her voice deep and vibrating, "and I'll tell Mr. Trupp." The name struck Ernie's subconsciousness with the disturbing effect of a pebble dropped into a still pool. Ripples spread over the torpid surface of his mind, rousing it in ever-growing circles to life. The view was dissolving with extraordinary speed. It remained the same and yet was entirely changed. The play was becoming real.... The little man was now walking swiftly away along the tow-path. Suddenly he turned and came back a pace or two, his hand out. The woman had not stirred. She stood bare-headed on the river-bank, one foot on a twisted root, one knee bent. "Give me back my letter," said the man. "And I'll let it go at that." She met him squarely. "That I wun't then!" The little man hesitated and then turned about. Ernie came to himself with a pop, as a man comes to the surface after long submersion in the deeps. CHAPTER LIV THE BROOKS Ruth was standing on the bank opposite him, but she had turned her back upon him and the river. He saw the heave of her shoulders, and the motion of her head, and knew that she was weeping. In a second he had flung himself into the water and was wading towards her. She turned at the sound of his surging, expecting fresh enemies, and prepared for them. He stood in mid-stream, a picturesque and dishevelled figure, grimy with coal-dust, collarless, touzle-headed, his greasy overall braced above his waistcoat. "Ruth!" he called uncertainly. She stood on the bank among the willows and looked down on him. He ducked his face in the stream, and washed away the coal-dust. "Now d'ye know me?" he grinned. Her face glowed. "I knew you without that, Ernie," she answered, her voice deep and humming, as of old, like an inspired silver-top.