He had finally put aside The Lilac Sunbonnet, gone into his study, lit the gas fire, and written the letter that had brought these unsatisfactory relations to a head. Somehow her walk home with him had been transmogrified into a melodramatic rejection, a slamming. ‘More nor that. Manning, I do not think I love you. As the novel grew Ruth was astonished to see herself enter and dominate it: sometimes as she actually was, with all her dreams reviewed—as if he had caught her talking in her sleep. But he could only discern a black and shapeless mass, floating upon the water at a little distance, which, to his bewildered fancy, appeared absolutely standing still. Would she ever find it? Sighing, she opened the door to the next room, and drew back the drapes.
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