He looked down.
"He doesn't know you. If he did—"
"If he did, it would make not a bit of difference."
"I think it would; all the difference."
She smilingly shook her head.
"I should always wear my label, 'woman to beware of.' But what does it matter? I'm not married to him. If I were, ah, then I should be the most miserable woman on earth—now!"
He sat down close to her in another beehive chair.
"Ruby, why did you say 'now' like that?"
"Oh," she spoke in a tone of lightness that sounded assumed, "because now I've lived in an atmosphere not of mistrust. And it's spoilt me completely."
He felt within him a glow strong and golden as the glow of the sunset. At last she had forgotten their painful scene in the garden. He had fought for and had won her soul's forgetfulness.