Hubert at moments felt a brute, and this was one of them. He knew that he should thank her, kiss her, yet he could do neither. He found himself wondering in a dazed, abstract way, as often in these past years, whether she was really genuine or whether it was just a woman's bluff to make him feel his shaft had fallen short. If she was quite sincere, he felt almost aggrieved. The end of their long life together seemed to mean so little to her....
"No," he said automatically, not realising how inadequate it was; and then, "Well, old girl, I really think perhaps now I ought to work." He patted her hand in a perfunctory way as he released his own from it. "We've had our little chat and it's your bedtime, I am sure."
"Yes," answered Ruth, and hesitated.
"Hugh," she said presently, "aren't I to know who it is?" Her tone was more patient than aggrieved, but he read something of the other into it.
"Who what is?" he replied, although he guessed her meaning.
"Who you think of marrying. Who's suddenly put the idea into your head." She waited a few moments; then, as he said nothing, she added almost slyly, "Well, I think I know! I've not forgotten Devonshire yet, and what a lot there was in your letters about Miss—Miss—I forget her name."
"Oh, that Miss Hallam, you mean," came the icy answer.
It chilled even her exuberance. Her rare gaiety died quickly, and she looked the martyr once again.
"I see you don't mean to tell me," she said. "Very well. Of course I had no right to ask. I thought you'd like to let me know." She sighed. "I wish men weren't so terribly reserved."
"And I wish," he retorted, "that women weren't so horribly imaginative."