She knew it. Oh, yes; of Ruth herself he knew much; but the more he mulled over what he knew, the deeper grew his chagrin. Every moment. ‘But, Gérard—’ ‘Don’t start arguing,’ he said in a tone that brooked no defiance. Why hadn't he gone on with the girl's story? What instinct had stuffed it back into his throat? Why the inexplicable impulse to hurry this rather pathetic derelict on his way? CHAPTER XV Previous to his illness, Spurlock's mind had been tortured by an appalling worry, so that now, in the process of convalescence, it might be compared to a pool which had been violently stirred: there were indications of subsidence, but there were still strange forms swirling on the surface—whims and fancies which in normal times would never have risen above sub-consciousness. She saw Lucy darkening her doorstep and stood from the recliner. She perceived she had never really thought of any one but herself in all her acts and plans. Through it all Spurlock maintained a gaiety which deceived them completely.
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