Ruth was inflammable; she would always be flaring up swiftly, in pity, in tenderness, in anger; she would always be answering impulses, without seeking to weigh or to analyse them. . Drummond, who had been about to speak, refrained. ‘The major will tell you when to stop. She regarded him coldly, as though wondering whether he had anything further to say. She closed her eyes as if asleep, her hands folded neatly on her abdomen. She realized more and more the quality of the brink upon which she stood—the dreadful readiness with which in certain moods she might plunge, the unmitigated wrongness and recklessness of such a self-abandonment. Upon my word, Anna,” she declared, with a strange little laugh, “you are a thousand times more like me as I was two months ago than I am myself. Yet the smoke was curling upwards in a faint innocent-looking cloud to the ceiling.
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