His face fell. ‘Then it must certainly be Eugénie. She was retuning, fifths spilling from the sliver of light underneath the door like milk. She had taken care he should have this momentous talk with her on a garden-seat commanded by the windows of the house. She rose, paid her bill, and turned westwards. Unless there was some real metal in the young fool, some hidden strength with which to breast the current, Ruth would become a millstone around his neck and soon he would become to her an object of pity and contempt. ’ ‘The tables, they are turned, I think,’ she returned.
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