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. “Why?” “I still love you. ‘Good, good—and not before time,’ muttered Roding, glancing round again. And God had let him do it! He was—and now he perfectly understood that he was—treading the queerest labyrinth a man had ever entered. Behind every one of these myriad fronts she passed there must be a career or careers. The twists in his brain had suddenly straightened out; he was normal, wholly himself; and he knew now exactly what he had done.
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