Mrs. Marshall laughed. "Because it is the way of women," she said.
"Do you think, then, that I ought to speak to her?"
"Not just now. Wait till Mr. Webster and his too fascinating violin have taken their departure. Then she will forget this--this Bohemian."
"Webster isn't a bad sort of fellow," Heron said, apologetically. "In spite of his long hair, he is something of a sportsman. He has seen a good deal of the world, too, and he is plucky in his own way. I like him well enough but, of course, I can't help feeling jealous. You see, I love Ruth--I may call her Ruth to you--so much."
"There is no need for jealousy. Ruth will be your wife. I promise you that; you have me on your side."
"I won't have her forced into the marriage," he said, sturdily.
Mrs. Marshall brushed the suggestion aside.
Neil's unhappy state of mind had taken him out into the cold. The quiet thoughts of the morning had given way to perfect torture, and he could in no way account for the change. So far, indeed, as his nerves were concerned, he never could account for anything in connection with them any more than could the physicians whom he had consulted. He was the prey of a highly neurotic temperament which tortured his life, and he had a vivid imagination which made him exaggerate the slightest worries into catastrophes.
An hour's brisk walking over the crisp snow brought him to a solitary place far from every human habitation. The village had vanished, and Neil found himself in the centre--as it seemed--of a lonely white world arched over by a blue sky. All around the landscape was buried in drifts of snow, which, dazzling white in the sunlight, were painful to look upon. He walked along some disused roads, guiding himself by the hedges which ran along the sides. Shortly the sky began to cloud over rapidly, to assume a leaden aspect; and finally down came the snow.
He turned his face homewards, anxious to get back before the night came on. But as the snow fell thicker he grew bewildered, and began to take the situation seriously. Suddenly, as he trudged along, a building loomed up before him through the fallen flakes; it stood where four roads met, and he guessed at once that it was an old turnpike house. On a nearer approach he saw that it was empty; the windows were broken, the door was half open, and it was fenced in by a jungle of bushes like the palace of the Sleeping Beauty.