There were so many things about her which he could not understand. Simply. She thought of her father in the garden, and of her aunt with her Patience, as she had seen them—how many ages was it ago? Just one day intervened. Then he turned round and gazed thoughtfully at the particular spot in the fog where Courtlaw had disappeared. When the hero finally did appear, Ruth became filled with gentle self-mockery. She saw herself begin a slow, sinuous dance: and stop suddenly in the middle of a figure, conscious that the dance was not impromptu, her own, but native—the same dance she had quitted but a few minutes gone.
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