They heard his footsteps descending the stone staircase, growing fainter and fainter. Fortescue rambled round the garden with soft, propitiatory steps, the Corinthian nose upraised and his hands behind his back, pausing to look long and hard at the fruit-trees against the wall. She stood among them, watching them and feeling curiously alien to them. Poor Ruth: for a father, a madman; for a husband—a thief! Spurlock rocked his body slightly. Her scream shook the windows of the sedan. Sheppard, meekly. “You doubted me?” She joked. “How do you know?” “Well, it isn’t exactly a depressing state, is it?” “YOU don’t know. The expression, however, which would chiefly have interested a beholder, was that of settled and profound melancholy.
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