Her voice and manner were wholly natural again. North looked palpably relieved, but when his daughter had disappeared with Lady Condor towards the flower garden he turned anxiously to Ruth.
“Does she often talk like that?” he asked. “It is so unlike her—so absolutely unlike—” He stopped, his eyes searched Ruth’s, and for a moment there was silence. “What is it?” he asked.
They were wandering now, aimlessly, back to the house.
“If I were to tell you what I think,” said Ruth slowly, “you would call me mad.”
“You don’t mind that.” He spoke impatiently. “Tell me.”
“Not yet—wait. Did anything strike you when she burst out like that just now?”
North did not answer. He had ridden over and still held his whip in his right hand. He struck the fallen rustling leaves backwards and forwards with it as he walked, with the sharp whish expressive of annoyance and irritation.
“You women are enough to drive a man crazy between you,” he said.
This being plainly no answer to her question Ruth simply waited.
“How often has she talked in that strain?” North asked at length.