She glared at him with satisfaction. Her white shirt was mired with a central bloodstain, his pants caked with mud. “I’ll turn you here. He did not play golf, but took his exercise on horseback, which was also unsympathetic. Without you I should never have recovered either health or reason. I seed he was one,—and a sharp un, too,—at a glance. It was dry, as if she had powdered it. “But it makes me feel inhuman,” he added. His spirits began to rise. That he was immolating Ruth on the altar of his conscience never broke in upon his thought for consideration. “Good-bye, John,” she said simply.
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