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. Still he looked hale and hearty, and the country life he led had imparted a ruddier glow to his cheek. There was a trader—a man who bought copra and pearls. She won’t be a problem from now on. “I ought to look up Gwen,” she said. ” “There’s a sort of instinct of rebellion,” said Capes. ‘Didn’t mean it, love.
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