The half-hour was striking from Saint Mary's—the church in which she had been married—as Ruth reached the door of the sign of The Ship. She was about to knock, when suddenly it opened, and Mr. Wilding himself, with Trenchard immediately behind him, stood confronting her. At sight of him a momentary weakness took her. He had changed from his hard-used riding-garments into a suit of roughly corded black silk, which threw into relief the steely litheness of his spare figure. His dark brown hair was carefully dressed, diamonds gleamed in the cravat of snowy lace at his throat. He was uncovered, his hat under his arm, and he stood aside to make way for her, imagining that she was some woman of the house.
“Mr. Wilding,” said she, her heart fluttering in her throat. “May I... may I speak with you?”
He leaned forward, seeking to pierce the shadows of her wimple; he had thought he recognized the voice, as his sudden start had shown; and yet he disbelieved his ears. She moved her head at that moment, and the light streaming out from a lamp in the passage beat upon her white face.
“Ruth!” he cried, and came quickly forward. Trenchard, behind him, looked on and scowled with sudden impatience. Mr. Wilding's philanderings with this lady had never had the old rake's approval. Too much trouble already had resulted from them.
“I must speak with you at once. At once!” she urged him, her tone fearful.
“Are you in need of me?” he asked concernedly.
“In very urgent need,” said she.
“I thank God,” he answered without flippancy. “You shall find me at your service. Tell me.”
“Not here; not here,” she answered him.
“Where else?” said he. “Shall we walk?”