There was a hint of tears in her voice. ‘Bête!’ Gerald caught her hand as she pulled it back to deliver another blow. And mind, your life,—more than your life—hangs upon your choice. Wanton!… This, then, was what her father had meant. “You killed them, didn’t you?” He said. If ever she felt fatigue in these long tramps which had already taken her half over London, she never admitted it. To make Ruth pay for it! He wanted to get away, into some immense echoless tract where he could give vent to this wild laughter which tore at his vitals. “You are my friend,” she said, “if any one is. Go to it; and the best of luck!" He went out. Parbleu, but must she do this all through the house? Evidently she must, for not only could she not properly see the paintings and portraits that hung on the walls, but she was in imminent danger of bumping into the sheet-shrouded furniture. There was something very wrong. They walked two by two to the car, looking the part of 267 two weary spouses supporting their drunken mates after an all-night bender.
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