The Scot understood that, gently and indirectly, Ruth was asking her husband a question, opening a door if he cared to enter. It was a serene and charming evening, and twilight was gently stealing over the face of the country. As she came close, he took a pace forward and seized her from behind, one strong arm clamping her tight against his chest, the free hand seizing her about the mouth, stifling the cry that gurgled in her throat. He uttered one word over and over, monotonously: "Fool! … Fool!" But invariably the touch of Ruth's hand quieted him, and his head would cease to roll from side to side. Yet she never once thought of changing it. "What is it you want?" she asked, as she held out the coat.
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