But it is that I have a very bad temper, you understand. The word "criticism" had no concrete meaning to her then; no more than "compromise. Her safety lay in pretense—that what she saw was as a tale twice told. The road from Surbiton and Epsom ran under the arch, and, like a bright fungoid growth in the ditch, there was now appearing a sort of fourth estate of little redand-white rough-cast villas, with meretricious gables and very brassy windowblinds. He did not want Ruth to see his own stricken countenance; nor did he care to see hers, ravaged by tears.
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