husband, and, of course, he has no idea—that I am going to meet this other man. He would think it extraordinarily foolish.”
“Well, don’t you think it is?”
“I—I suppose it is.”
Ruth Kettering looked down at her hands; they were shaking violently.
“But I can’t draw back now.”
“Why not?”
“I—it is all arranged, and it would break his heart.”
“Don’t you believe it,” said Katherine robustly; “hearts are pretty tough.”
“He will think I have no courage, no strength of purpose.”
“It seems to me an awfully silly thing that you are going to do,” said Katherine. “I think you realise that yourself.”
Ruth Kettering buried her face in her hands. “I don’t know—I don’t know. Ever since I left Victoria I have had a horrible feeling of something—something that is coming to me very soon—that I can’t escape.”
She clutched convulsively at Katherine’s hand.
“You must think I am mad talking to you like this, but I tell you I know something horrible is going to happen.”
“Don’t think it,” said Katherine; “try to pull yourself together. You could send your father a wire from Paris, if you like, and he would come to you at once.”