"Get your desk in, Chetwode," he ordered, "and then take down some
letters. The American mail goes early this afternoon."




CHAPTER IX

A STRAINED CONVERSATION


Arnold swung around the corner of the terrace that evening with
footsteps still eager notwithstanding his long walk. The splendid
egoism of youth had already triumphed, the tragedy of the day had
become a dim thing. He himself was moving forward and onward. He
glanced up at the familiar window, feeling a slight impulse of
disappointment when he received no welcoming wave of the hand. It
was the first time for weeks that Ruth had not been there. He
climbed the five flights of stone stairs, still buoyant and
light-hearted. Glancing into his own room, he found it empty, then
crossed at once the passageway and knocked at Ruth's door. She was
lying back in her chair, with her back toward the window.

"Why, Ruth," he exclaimed, "how dare you desert your post!"

He felt at once that there was something strange in her reception of
him. She stopped him as he came across the room, holding out both
her hands. Her wan face was strained as she gazed and gazed.
Something of the beautiful softness of her features had passed for
the moment. She was so anxious, so terrified lest she should