There were neither texts nor rubbish on the walls, but only a stirring version of Belshazzar’s feast, a steel engraving in the early Victorian manner that had some satisfactory blacks. “But—your people!” she gasped. "Do you know anything further of Sir Rowland?" he asked. For Ruth was in love, tenderly and beautifully in love; but she did not know how to express it beyond the fetch and carry phase. At least that, I think, is what makes a clever woman’s independent career so much more difficult than a clever man’s. . . ’ ‘I don’t, as a matter of fact,’ Gerald said decidedly, a frown creasing his brow. In her little sitting-room she turned on the electric light and looked around half fearfully. They were bathing in the stream. In this letter, which is addressed to my ill-fated mother, he speaks of his friendship for Sir Rowland, whom it seems he had known abroad; but entreats her to keep the marriage secret for a time, for reasons which are not fully developed.
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