Ann Veronica sat firelit by her tea-tray with, quite unconsciously, the air of an expert hostess. She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. It was an oldfashioned peasant blouse, white, square necked, and trimmed with lace. Enschede, to have starved his heart as well as Ruth's because, having laid a curse, he knew not how to turn aside from it! How easily he might have forgotten the unworthy mother in the love of the child! And this day to hear her voice lifted in a quality of anathema. “I brought a man with me who is posted outside,” he remarked. But Enschede took them as they came, without question. "What's become of Ruth?" "Gone to her room. Perhaps her granddaughter might marry his grandson. Ennison,” she exclaimed, “is that really you?” There was no sign of embarrassment in her manner.
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