She had known that Remenham House would be deserted, for Martha—released, as she had carefully explained to her charge, by her vows to God from servitude and obedience to Nicholas Charvill, a mere mortal—had begun a correspondence with a friend of her youth, Mrs Joan Ibstock, née Pottiswick. The mortal youth in him, then, was fascinated, the thinker, the poet; from all sides Ruth attacked him, innocently. For a time she furnished the flat. At length, however, she threw herself off; and Jack carefully guiding the rope she landed in safety. “Is your husband here to-night?” he asked. Neither of them joined in the applause which followed upon her exit.
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