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. Her cheeks burned for a moment or two when she reached the street, although she held her head upright and walked blithely, even humming to herself fragments of an old French song. Set on unravelling her secrets, Gerald pursues every possible clue—much to the indignation of Mademoiselle. Afterwards we started for déjeuner in a motor. I shouldn't care to express an opinion.
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