Behind the Avenue was a little hill, and an iron-fenced path went over the crest of this to a stile under an elm-tree, and forked there, with one branch going back into the Avenue again. And such skirts as Ann Veronica had had when she entered the valley of Saas were safely packed away in the hotel, and she wore a leather belt and loose knickerbockers and puttees—a costume that suited the fine, long lines of her limbs far better than any feminine walking-dress could do. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. “It’s odd—I have no doubt in my mind that what we are doing is wrong,” he said. She had told him, point blank, that since the Church had neither annulled the first marriage nor sanctified the second one, she was not his wife. She said that she dated him to be closer to me.
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