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As she came close, he took a pace forward and seized her from behind, one strong arm clamping her tight against his chest, the free hand seizing her about the mouth, stifling the cry that gurgled in her throat. “Earning a salary!” “You’re like a Princess in Exile!” he repeated, overruling her. He had “put his foot down,” and said she must not go. Why had Ruth married him? A penniless outcast, for she must have known he was that. The joy of being loved thrilled her as nothing before had ever done, a curious abstract joy which had nothing in it at that moment of regret or even pity. “It was just an hour before teatime,” she remarked. He was there concealed, waiting her return. I see that I am a beast—I beg your pardon, bête—and an imbecile, and an idiot.
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