Smith's melody had subsided. All his interest in Ruth, all his care and solicitude, could now be translated into a single word—love. By now the horses would be rested and he might go as swiftly back again. In fact he was thinking of other things. She let Jack go as he passed through the opening. “No, I must have had hope lurking somewhere too. They are things faint and slight in themselves, as physical facts, but they are like the detonator of a bomb: they let loose the explosive. It comes over the mountains, Anna, pink darkening into orange red, everywhere a wonderful cloud sea, scintillating with colour.
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