At the pier, at Ernie's suggestion, they got down. It was dark now; the sea moon-silvered and still.
They walked along, rubbing elbows. Ernie broke the silence, to ask a question that had long haunted him.
"Ruth," he said, "however did you come into service at the Hohenzollern?"
Both of them had unconsciously resumed the accent of the town as they returned to the town.
Ruth told him simply and without reserve.
She had been maid to Squire Caryll's sister at the Dowerhouse in Aldwoldston. Her mistress had been taken ill, and Mr. Trupp had ordered her to Beachbourne.
"We was going to the Grand," Ruth told him. "But it was full. So cardingly we went to the Hohenzollern till the Grand could have us. And once there we stayed there two years—till she died. See Mr. Trupp likes the Hotel for his patients. There's the lawns straight onto the sea; and the Invalids' Corner by the anonymous hedge he got Madame to build."
Madame had throughout been kind, so kind—first to her mistress and then to her; for after Miss Caryll's death Ruth had broken down from over-strain. The Manageress and Mr. Trupp had pulled her through. Then when she came round, Madame, who was clearly fond of the girl, had kept her on as personal maid, "cosseting me," said Ruth with a little laugh, "like a bottle-lamb." At Easter, when the crush came, and Ruth was quite recovered, Madame had asked her to go to the Third Floor to help, saying she would take her back if the girl didn't like it.
"I went tempory to oblige Madame," Ruth explained. "I'd do a lot for her. She's been that kind."
Ruth had been there some weeks now, too lazy or too shy to take the step that would involve another change.