“She was neither dark nor fair, short nor tall; amongst a crowd of other women, she seemed undistinguishable by any special gifts; yet when you had realized her there was no other woman in the room.  She had the eyes of an angel, only they were generally veiled; she had the figure of a miniature Venus, soft and with delicate curves, which seemed somehow to be always subtly asserting themselves, although she affected in her dress an almost puritanical simplicity.  Her presence in a room was always felt at once.  There are some women, beautiful or plain, whose sex one scarcely recognizes.  She was not one of these!  She seemed to carry with her the concentrated essence of femininity.  Her quiet movements, the almost noiseless rustling of her clothes, the quaint, undistinguishable perfumes which she used, her soft, even voice, were all things which seemed individual to her.  She was like a study in undernotes, and yet”—­Lovell paused a moment—­“and yet no Spanish dancing woman, whose dark eyes and voluptuous figure have won her the crown of the demi-monde, ever possessed that innate and mystic gift of kindling passion like that woman.  I told you I couldn’t describe her!  I can’t!  I can only speak of effects.  If my story interests you, you must build up your own idea of her.”

“Becky Sharpe!” Aynesworth murmured.

Lovell nodded.

“Perhaps,” he admitted, “only Ruth was a lady.  To go on with my story.  A hunting coterie, as you fellows know, means lots of liberty, and a general free-and-easiness amongst the sexes, which naturally leads to flirtations more or less serious.  Ruth’s little affairs were either too cleverly arranged, or too harmless for gossip.  Amongst the other women of the hunt, she seemed outwardly almost demure.  But one day—­there was a row!”

Lovell paused, and took a drink from a glass by his side.

“I hope you fellows won’t think that I’m spinning this out,” he said.  “It is, after all, in itself only a commonplace story, but I’ve carried it locked up in my memory for years, and now that I’ve let it loose, it unwinds itself slowly.  This is how the row came about.  Lumley one afternoon missed Wingrave and Ruth from the hunting field.  Someone most unfortunately happened to tell him that they had left the run together, and had been seen riding together towards White Lodge, which was the name of the house where these two young men lived.  Lumley followed them.  He rode into the stable yard, and found there Ruth’s mare and Wingrave’s covert hack, from which he had not changed when they had left the field.  Both animals had evidently been ridden hard, and there was something ominous in the smile with which the head groom told him that Lady Ruth and Wingrave were in the house.

“The two men had separate dens.  Wingrave’s was much the better furnished, as he was a young man of considerable taste, and he had also fitted it with sporting trophies collected from many countries.  This room was at the back of the house, and Lumley deliberately crossed the lawn and looked in at the window.”