“It’s the spring,” he said. How little he knew about Ruth—the background from which she had sprung! He knew that her father was a missioner, that her mother was dead, that she had been born on this island, and that, at the time of his collapse, she had been on the way to an aunt in the States. Conscience was always digging sudden pits for his feet and common sense ridiculing his fears. You may go back, Marthe. ‘Would you care for some refreshment? A glass of wine, perhaps?’ ‘Nothing, merci, I do not remain,’ she answered, although she did not rise. This year—I’ve got it badly. “Where is my beautiful wife?” He bellowed from the downstairs. Briefly explained, she was as the child who discards the rag baby for the living one.
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