Her father was right: Ruth must never know. Neither Charvill nor his heir know anything of your presence in England. So, adroitly and patiently, he pulled Ruth apart; that is, he plucked forth a little secret here, another there, until he had quite a substantial array. They confronted each other, barely feet apart, neither apparently any longer aware of anyone else in the room. Outside the post-office stood a nohatted, blond young man in gray flannels, who was elaborately affixing a stamp to a letter. He had the air of a man who has said too much. Unless he has dealings with the devil, he could never have done this alone. “It’s glorious good!” “Suppose now—look at this long snow-slope and then that blue deep beyond —do you see that round pool of color in the ice—a thousand feet or more below? Yes? Well, think—we’ve got to go but ten steps and lie down and put our arms about each other.
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