But the sarcasm was no longer needed. Already poor Richard was very
humble, his make-believe spirit all snuffed out. He observed at last
how pale and set was his sister's face, and he realized something of
the sacrifice she had made. Never in all his life was Richard so near
to lapsing from the love of himself; never so near to forgetting his
own interests, and preferring those of Ruth. Lady Horton sat silent,
her heart fluttering with dismay and perplexity. Heaven had not
equipped her with a spirit capable of dealing with a situation such as
this. Blake stood in makebelieve stolidity dissembling his infinite
chagrin and the stormy emotions warring within him, for some signs of
which Diana watched his countenance in vain.

"You shall not do it!" cried Richard suddenly. He came forward and
laid his hand on his sister's shoulder. His voice was almost gentle.
"Ruth, you shall not do this for me. You must not."

"By Heaven, no!" snapped Blake before she could reply. "You are right,
Richard. Mistress Westmacott must not be the scapegoat. She shall not
play the part of Iphigenia."

But Ruth smiled wistfully as she answered him with a question,
"Where is the help for it?"

Richard knew where the help for it lay, and for once - for just a
moment - he contemplated danger and even death with equanimity.

"I can take up this quarrel again," he announced. "I can compel Mr.
Wilding to meet me.