“Ruin, the Bankruptcy Court, and all the rest of it!” she declared, a note of defiance creeping into her tone.
Her husband’s face was white with astonishment. He stared across at her blankly.
“Are you mad, Ruth?” he exclaimed. “Do you know what you are saying?”
“Quite well,” she answered. “I’m a little sick of the whole show. The tradespeople are getting impertinent. I don’t even know where to get flowers for dinner tonight or where to go for my Ascot gowns. It must come sooner or later.”
“You’re talking like a fool,” he declared harshly. “Do you know that I should have to give up my seat and my clubs?”
“We could live quietly in the country.”
“Country be—hanged!” he exclaimed savagely. “What use is the country to you and me? I’d sooner put a bullet through my brain. Ruth, old lady,” he added more gently, “what’s gone wrong? You’re generally such a well plucked’un! Have you—had a row with Wingrave?” he asked, looking at her anxiously.
“No!”
“Then what is it?”
“Nothing! I’ve lost my nerve, I suppose!”