It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. She limited herself to eating once a fortnight, until she discovered that she could go without comfortably for a month. Then he understood. Most of it had been incomprehensible to her, or comprehensible in a way that checked further curiosity, but the figure of Vivien, hard, capable, successful, and bullying, and ordering about a veritable Teddy in the person of Frank Gardner, appealed to her. It was a refusal of expediency, he said, and not an absolute refusal. Never in this world! Let the hotel people take care of him; it's their affair. In one hand she carried a long-stalked red rose, dripping with dew, in the other the post-bag. She wished that the drive would never end, but it was only three miles after all. "Go on. He and her father shook hands manfully. Of course this thing was absolutely impossible.
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