“Tired?” he asked at the end of this period.
Ruth shook her head and smiled.
“You must be. Come and sit down and take a rest.”
“I’m quite all right, dear. Go on with your work.”
“Well, shout out the moment you feel you’ve had enough.”
He began to paint again. The minutes went by and Ruth made no movement. He began to grow absorbed in his work. He lost count of time. Ruth ceased to be Ruth, ceased even to be flesh and blood. She was just something he was painting.
“Kirk!”
The sharp suddenness of the cry brought him to his feet, quivering. Ruth was swaying on the model-throne. Her eyes were staring straight before her and her face was twisted with fear.
As he sprang forward she fell, pitching stiffly head foremost, as he had seen men fall in the ring, her arms hanging at her sides; and he caught her.
He carried her to the couch and laid her down. He hung for an instant in doubt whether to go for water or telephone for the doctor. He decided on the telephone.