A home MAY be a sort of cage, but still—it’s a home. She sought hastily in her mind for a plausible answer to an obvious question that didn’t come. ‘Jarvis Remenham was your mother’s father. I have given up painting. Fortescue rambled round the garden with soft, propitiatory steps, the Corinthian nose upraised and his hands behind his back, pausing to look long and hard at the fruit-trees against the wall. To-morrow I shall come and talk to you again—of other things. He loved you. . I’m minded to take a whip and beat some sense into you. It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. I keep on thinking of little details and aspects of your voice, your eyes, the way you walk, the way your hair goes back from the side of your forehead. She was caught by some of the bystanders, who offered by her every assistance in their power.
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