"Read that," rejoined Austin, pointing to the placard. It wasn’t pretty. “I’m going for a long tramp, auntie,” she said. Ruth was inflammable; she would always be flaring up swiftly, in pity, in tenderness, in anger; she would always be answering impulses, without seeking to weigh or to analyse them. When anybody is natural, these days, we dub them queer. She complained of the crowded cities, dismayed that the people were repopulating them like rabbits. She forgot her vital hatred of the South Seas; she forgot that McClintock's would not differ a jot from the old island she had for ever left behind her; she forgot all the doctor's lessons and warnings.
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