The shock of hearing this title pronounced was equally distributed between Ruth and her husband; but it aroused two absolutely different emotions.  There came to Spurlock the recurrence of the grim resolution of what he had set out to do:  that comradeship was all he might ever give this exquisite creature; for she was exquisite, and in a way she dominated this picture of sea and sky and sail.  Ruth’s emotion was a primitive joy:  she was essential in this man’s life, and she would always be happy because he would always be needing her.

“You will be wanting your broth, Hoddy,” she said.  “I’ll fetch it.”

She made the companion without touching stay or rail, which necessitated a fine sense of balance, for there was a growing vigour to the wind and a corresponding lift to the roll of the sea.  The old-fashioned dress, with its series of ruffles and printed flowers, ballooned treacherously, revealing her well-turned leg in silk stockings, as it snapped against her body as a mould.

Silk.  In Singapore that had been her only dissipation:  a dozen pairs of silk stockings.  She did not question or analyze the craving; she took the plunge joyously.  It was the first expression of the mother’s blood.  Woman’s love of silk is not set by fashion; it is bred in the bone; and somewhere, somehow, a woman will have her bit of silk.

McClintock watched her interestedly until her golden head vanished below; then, with tolerant pity, he looked down at Spurlock, who had closed his eyes.  She would always be waiting upon this boy, he mused.  Proper enough now, when he could not help himself, but the habit would be formed; and when he was strong again it would become the normal role, hers to give and his to receive.  He wondered if the young fool had any idea of what he had drawn in this tragic lottery called marriage.  Probably hadn’t.  As for that, what man ever had?

“That’s a remarkable young woman,” he offered, merely to note what effect it would have.

Spurlock looked up.  “She’s glorious!” He knew that he must hoodwink this keen-eyed Scot, even as he must hoodwink everybody:  publicly, the devoted husband; privately, the celibate.  He was continually dramatizing the future, anticipating the singular role he had elected to play.  He saw it in book-covers, on the stage.  “Did you ever see the like of her?”

“No,” answered McClintock, gravely.  “I wonder how she picked up Kanaka?  On her island they don’t talk Kanaka lingo.”

Her island!  How well he knew it, thought Spurlock, for all he lacked the name and whereabouts!  Suddenly a new thought arose and buffeted him.  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.  But what did he know beyond these facts?  Nothing, clearly.  Oh, yes; of Ruth herself he knew much; but the more he mulled over what he knew, the deeper grew his chagrin.  The real Ruth was as completely hidden as though she stood behind the walls of Agra Fort.  But after all, what did it matter whether she had secrets or not?  To him she was not a woman but a symbol; and one did not investigate the antecedents of symbols.