She got it out, and Ruth looked at it.

It was a slight sketch of an octagonal building with wide arches all round it, roofing in a paved path, on which, in days gone by, it had evidently been the pernicious custom to exercise the horses, whose stalls and loose boxes formed the centre of the building.

The stable had a certain quaintness, and the sketch was at that delightful point when no random stroke has as yet falsified the promise that a finished drawing, however clever, so seldom fulfils.
Ruth took it up, and looked out of the window.

The sun was blazing out, ashamed of his absence for so long.

She might as well finish it now.