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. She barely heard a word that Martin or Brown said, until Martin’s voice chimed. People of your sort—I don’t want the instincts to—to rush our situation. ” The dinner was admirable as a dinner; nothing went wrong, from the golden and excellent clear soup to the delightful iced marrons and cream; and Miss Stanley’s praises died away to an appreciative acquiescence. “Tell me his name,” he said, “and I promise that he shall never trouble you.
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