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. “Dear friend,” she said, “do not magnify me into a physiological problem. “I may go to Hatton House later, but you needn’t wait. When I awoke I followed my instinct to Athena’s temple. A boy like John’s dashing friend David Mitchell, someone who shares your love of academics. How little he knew about Ruth—the background from which she had sprung! He knew that her father was a missioner, that her mother was dead, that she had been born on this island, and that, at the time of his collapse, she had been on the way to an aunt in the States. “Yes.
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