On the one hand, she seemed to think plainly and simply, and would talk serenely and freely about topics that most women have been trained either to avoid or conceal; and on the other she was unconscious, or else she had an air of being unconscious—that was the riddle—to all sorts of personal applications that almost any girl or woman, one might have thought, would have made. Ruth stared into the painted face, now sundrily cracked by the coursing tears. He would take with him that traitress Yolande, and claim to the lawyer that this was Melusine Charvill. The air might be cool, but half an hour without head-gear was an invitation to sunstroke. He had not addressed to her even the most ordinary courtesy of fellow travellers; she doubted that he was even aware of her existence.
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