Her answer was not quite ready. The evening breeze came; the bamboo shades on the veranda clicked and rasped; the loose edges of the manuscript curled. Why in heaven’s name didn’t I think of that before?’ ‘What are you talking of?’ ‘Never mind that now. The thought passed through his mind even as he started to cross the terrace at a jogtrot, moving to head her off. Ruth was inflammable; she would always be flaring up swiftly, in pity, in tenderness, in anger; she would always be answering impulses, without seeking to weigh or to analyse them.
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