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. Over these boards the two arms of a guide-post serve to direct the wayfarer—on the right hand to the neighbouring villages of Neasdon and Kingsbury, and on the left to the Edgeware Road and the healthy heights of Hampstead. Their conversation degenerated again and again into a strain of self-congratulation that would have irked an eavesdropper. “Oh, you know,” she said. I love you—unendurably.
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