"Forgive me. I had not thought them capable—"
"There is nothing to forgive," Ruth assured her. "They probably told the truth, and the fault is mine."
Miss Quiney, incredulous, slowly raised her face from the cushions and stared.
"Yes," repeated Ruth, "the fault is entirely mine."
"But—but," stammered Mrs. Harry. Ruth had turned away towards the window, and the honest wife stared after her, against the light. "But he will make it all right when he returns." She started, of a sudden. Cunningly as Ruth had dressed herself, Mrs. Harry's eyes guessed the truth. "You have written to him?"
"No."
"He guesses, at least?"
"No."
"Then you are writing to him? There is enough time."
"No."