Rupert’s quick temper took fire in a moment.
“If you have so little confidence in me, Ruth, as to be angry at such a trifle,” he said hotly, “it is impossible—You make me feel that I ask more of you than you can give.”
“Yes,” said Ruth, “I cannot give such confidence. When it is months since I have seen you—weeks since I heard from you. I cannot see you devoted to—to another, when you cannot find a moment for me. If you can bear it—”
“You are very unreasonable, Ruth. I thought that you were generous before all other women, and patient. You speak as if you doubted my honour.”
“If it comes to talking of honour,” cried Ruth, “if you need that to bind you, you are free. I will not hold you one hour by your honour!”
“Nor I you to a trial of generosity, which it seems you cannot bear.”
If Rupert had not been first tête montée, and then very angry, he would not have made this remark.
“Generosity!” cried Ruth. “No. If honour and generosity are required between us, I’ll make no claim on them. Let it all be over—we’ll part. Yes, we’ll part, and then you need deny yourself nothing—nothing for my sake.”
“It might be best—if you look on it in this way.”
There was a silence. Rupert pulled his moustaches sharply; his face was pale; in that hot moment he felt he might be well quit of Ruth’s unreasonable jealousy and suspicion. Ruth sat quite still; she would have yielded at a word, perhaps—in a minute more she might even have made the first advance to a reconciliation. But as the dance ended the conservatory filled with people. They were joined by two or three couples, and a young lady, an old acquaintance of Rupert’s, exclaimed, with sufficient forwardness,—