the room recalled herself; that she was not here in the very core of his
life in even the smallest way. Yet this girl, this sunny creature with
the call of youth and passion in her eyes, this Ruth of the wheat-fields,
came and went here as though she was a part of it. She did this and that
for him, and she was no doubt on such terms of intimacy with him that
they were really part of each other's life in a scheme of domesticity
unlike any boarding-house organization she had ever known. Here in
everything there was the air, the decorum, and the unartificial comfort
of home.

This was why he could live without his wedded wife and her gold and her
brocade, and the silk and the Persian rugs, and the grand piano and the
carriages and the high silk hat from Piccadilly. Her husband had had the
luxuries of wealth, and here he was living like a Spartan on his hill--
and alone; though he had a wife whom men had beseiged both before and
after marriage. A feeling of impotent indignation suddenly took
possession of her. Here he was with two women, unattached,--one
interesting and good and agreeable and good-looking, and the other almost
a beauty,--who were part of the whole rustic scheme in which he lived.
They made him comfortable, they did the hundred things that a valet or a
fond wife would do; they no doubt hung on every word he uttered--and he
could be interesting beyond most men. She had realised terribly how
interesting he was after he had fled; when men came about her and talked
to her in many ways, with many variations, but always with the one tune
behind all they said; always making for the one goal, whatever the point
from which they started or however circuitous their route.

As time went on she had hungrily longed to see her husband again, and
other men had no power to interest her; but still she had not sought to
find him. At first it had been offended pride, injured self-esteem, in