He had his sections of the Siegfried map folded in his pocket, and he squatted up with his legs crossed like an Indian idol while she lay prone beside him and followed every movement of his indicatory finger. Sir John felt hot and furious. Every house-top, every window, every wall, every projection, had its occupants. That delightful sense of free, unembarrassed movement was gone. I have a good memory, you perceive, Sir Rowland. The washerwoman reported that she had seen a man one day riding out for an early morning hunt, but was unsure of his identity. He had been dreaming of Ruth—an old recurrency of that dream he had had in Canton, of Ruth leading him to the top of the mountain.
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