"Good day, Ruth."
"Good day, Cyrus."
She smiled, but the smile brought no sunshine to his heart; a perfunctory smile of duty and good manners, such as might have greeted any other human animal. And as she stood there, against the dark background of the woods, calm, cold, beautiful, and oh! so far away!—he saw aversion in her face and in every line of the rigid little figure.
In a low, uncertain voice he spoke. "So you will never forgive me?"
For a moment she looked away, beyond him, along the road toward the village. "I forgive you a great deal. I forgive your taking me by force and against my will from a welcome refuge where I was looking forward to a peaceful, happy life. But the greater wrong you have done me, the irreparable injury—that is harder to forgive."
"Irreparable injury? What do you mean, Ruth?"
Her eyebrows went up. "Indeed! You really do not know what I mean?"
"On my honor I do not."
"I mean my reputation—the loss of my good name."