"Oh! How do you do, Mr Machin?" said Ruth Earp, who had opened her door
to him at the corner of Tudor Passage and St Luke's Square.
It was an afternoon in July. Denry wore a new summer suit, whose pattern
indicated not only present prosperity but the firm belief that
prosperity would continue. As for Ruth, that plain but piquant girl was
in one of her simpler costumes; blue linen; no jewellery. Her hair was
in its usual calculated disorder; its outer fleeces held the light. She
was now at least twenty-five, and her gaze disconcertingly combined
extreme maturity with extreme candour. At one moment a man would be
saying to himself: "This woman knows more of the secrets of human nature
than I can ever know." And the next he would be saying to himself: "What
a simple little thing she is!" The career of nearly every man is marked
at the sharp corners with such women. Speaking generally, Ruth Earp's
demeanour was hard and challenging. It was evident that she could not be
subject to the common weaknesses of her sex. Denry was glad.
A youth of quick intelligence, he had perceived all the dangers of the
mission upon which he was engaged, and had planned his precautions.
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