CHAPTER XXIII Next morning Ruth did not refer to the episode on the sands of the lagoon. He pulled down a chair to her left. ‘I am not in the least in a rage. He turned the wheel carefully as he touched her neck with the other, threading her soft curls in between his slim fingers. Chairs were overturned. It was bad luck to go to Canongate. He was like a man beside himself. She moved forward almost indiscernibly, a millimeter. He had finally put aside The Lilac Sunbonnet, gone into his study, lit the gas fire, and written the letter that had brought these unsatisfactory relations to a head. By this time, she had so far succeeded in calming herself, that she answered the greetings of the neighbours whom she encountered on her way to the sacred edifice—if sorrowfully, still composedly. She forced herself not to think of John. But she did not believe he would do that. But you will, you will. ‘Eh bien, does that mean that you will do it again?’ ‘Not if I can help it,’ Gerald uttered, alarmed. And if I don’t, I go mad.
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