had taken place that day in the studio, and the subject was one which
she was shy of exhuming. She turned the conversation.
'What did you ask me just now? Something about......'
'I asked you what you had in common with these people.'
Ruth reflected.
'Oh, well, it's rather difficult to say if you put it like that.
They're just people, you know. They are amusing sometimes. I used to
know most of them. I suppose that is the chief thing which brings us
together. They happen to be there, and if you're travelling on a road
you naturally talk to your fellow travellers. But why? Don't you like
them? Which of them didn't you like?'
It was Kirk's turn to reflect.
'Well, that's hard to answer, too. I don't think I actively liked or
disliked any of them. They seemed to me just not worth while. My point
is, rather, why are we wasting a perfectly good evening mixing with
them? What's the use? That's my case in a nut-shell.'
'If you put it like that, what's the use of anything? One must do
something. We can't be hermits.'
A curious feeling of being infinitely far from Ruth came over Kirk. She
dismissed his dream as a whimsical impossibility not worthy of serious
consideration. Why could they not be hermits? They had been hermits
before, and it had been the happiest period of both their lives. Why,
just because an old man had died and left them money, must they rule
out the best thing in life as impossible and plunge into a nightmare
which was not life at all?
He had tried to deceive himself, but he could do so no longer. Ruth had
changed. The curse with which his sensitive imagination had invested
John Bannister's legacy was, after all no imaginary curse. Like a
golden wedge, it had forced Ruth and himself apart.
Everything had changed. He was no longer the centre of Ruth's life. He
was just an encumbrance, a nuisance who could not be got rid of and
must remain a permanent handicap, always in the way.
So thought Kirk morbidly as the automobile passed through the silent
streets. It must be remembered that he had been extremely bored for a
solid three hours, and was predisposed, consequently, to gloomy
thoughts.
Whatever his faults, Kirk rarely whined. He had never felt so miserable
in his life, but he tried to infuse a tone of lightness into the
conversation. After all, if Ruth's intuition fell short of enabling her
to understand his feelings, nothing was to be gained by parading them.
'I guess it's my fault,' he said, 'that I haven't got abreast of the
society game as yet. You had better give me a few pointers. My trouble
is that, being new to them, I can't tell whether these people are types
or exceptions. Take Clarence Grayling, for instance. Are there any more
at home like Clarence?'
'My dear child, all Bailey's special friends are like Clarence,
exactly like. I remember telling him so once.'
'Who was the specimen with the little black moustache who thought
America crude and said that the only place to live in was southern
