It is that, is it not?” “No,” he answered readily. Her aunt was making herself cuffs out of little slips of insertion under the newly lit lamp. A feeling of inexplicable awe crept over the carpenter as the sounds died away. They were both conscious, however, that something had intervened between them. Shame and electricity coursed through her veins, flowing directly from him in a flash flood. 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. The Trenchard estates will likewise be mine, for Sir Rowland is no more, and the youth, Thames, will never again see daylight.
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