She sat apprehensively on the edge of a chair, hating the women at the
windows, hating the dull, persistent flies, hating the wetness of her
forehead and the dampness of her palm; repenting of her hate and
hating again--and taking another cold bath to be fresh for the
home-coming of Carl, the tired man whom she had to mother and whom, of
all the world, she did not hate.

Even on the many cool days when the streets and the flat became
tolerable and the vulture women of the tenements ceased to exist for
her, Ruth was not much interested, whether she went out or some one
came to see her. Every one she knew, except for the Dunleavys and a
few others, was out of town, and she was tired of Olive Dunleavy's
mirth and shallow gossip. After her days with Carl in the valley of
the shadow, Olive was to her a stranger giggling about strange people.
Phil was rather better. He occasionally came in for tea, poked about,
stared at the color prints, and said cryptic things about feminism and
playing squash.

Her settlement-house classes were closed for the summer. She brooded
over the settlement work and accused herself of caring less for people
than for the sensation of being charitable. She wondered if she was a
hypocrite.... Then she would take another cold bath to be fresh for
the home-coming of Carl, the tired man whom she had to mother, and
toward whom, of all the world's energies, she knew that she was not
hypocritical.

This is not the story of Ruth Winslow, but of Carl Ericson. Yet Ruth's
stifling days are a part of it, for her unhappiness meant as much to
him as it did to her. In the swelter of his office, overlooking
motor-hooting, gasoline-reeking Broadway, he was aware that Ruth was
in the flat, buried alive. He made plans for her going away, but she
refused to desert him. He tried to arrange for a week more of holiday
for them both; he could not; he came to understand that he was now
completely a prisoner of business.

He was in a rut, both sides of which were hedged with "back work that
had piled up on him." He had no desire, no ambition, no interest,
except in Ruth and in making the Touricar pay.

The Touricar Company had never paid expenses as yet. How much longer
would old VanZile be satisfied with millions to come in the
future--perhaps?

Carl even took work home with him, though for Ruth's sake he wanted to
go out and play. It really was for her sake; he himself liked to play,
but the disease of perpetual