He wore a threecornered hat, a sandy-coloured scratch wig, and had a thick woollen wrapper folded round his throat. She drifted, via Theobald’s Road, obliquely toward the region about Titchfield Street. As Leonardo had himself pronounced, who better than a mountebank to teach of the perils awaiting the unwary? Who better than a wastrel to demonstrate the worth of thrift? And who could instruct better in the matter of affections than one who had thrown them away? ‘If he had loved me,’ she said, in the flat tone she had learned to use to conceal her vulnerable heart, ‘he would have left me at Remenham House to live a life of an English lady. There stepped forth a tall brown man. There was no mistaking his intentions this time. I must take you to the Suffrage people, and the Tolstoyans, and the Fabians. When the hero finally did appear, Ruth became filled with gentle self-mockery. "Here!" shrieked Lady Trafford. She went about the familiar home with a clearer and clearer sense of inevitable conclusions. It is no good waiving the thing; it is true. Let her see what she could make here.
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