His interest was divided: while his ears drank in the sounds, his glance constantly roved from Ruth to the performer and back to Ruth. She crouched beneath a stump, her extremities twitching as the sun set orange and blue beyond the lace of iron-black trees. She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters. "You're not hurt I hope, Sir Rowland?" inquired this individual. "You are angry?" "Very. “Quite unusually cold for the time of year,” he said. "I would treat him as you treated his father, Sir Rowland. 6.
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