ng an artist
has, but you are just a woman. He lives upon his self-conceit.... Oh
yes, I've said it now; I had to. It's not disloyalty. I'm fond of
Hubert too--everybody is, because he is so thorough in it, such a
perfect child. And everybody spares him too. Men of his sort are
never told; everybody pities them the shock. They smile on him and
like to see him so contented. They call him 'dear old Hubert.' It's
half pity, yes--but also it's half love. I've seen it all so clearly
since I got away. I've sometimes told myself that if I had those years
again, I should let him have the whole truth; but I know that I
shouldn't. And _you_ won't either, Helena. Nobody ever does. They
dream on happily, and all we others seem the selfish ones to them.
It's all a comedy, when you're not near enough to see the tragedy.
I've thought a lot about it, and I'm so glad now I was gentle. And
_you_'ll be gentle too, I know. You'll either go away or you won't
write: it's not for me to settle which; but you'll be gentle. You said
just now you hadn't got a child. You have. No married woman is
without a child. You won't be hard, I know, will you, because your
child has been a little spoilt and things have suddenly gone wrong,
and--just for a little bit--he loves to hurt his toys?"

"I--I never thought of it like that," said Helena, an odd look in her
eyes. "I thought him so splendid and clever, so terribly above me. It
all seemed so hopeless."

For answer Ruth went across and kissed this girl who made her feel so
old. "I wish we had known each other sooner," she said. "I must go
and unpack."

But outside in the hall she stood for a few moments, dabbing at her
eyes with a quite fashionably small handkerchief.

CHAPTER XXVIII

WOMAN PROPOSES

Ruth had abandoned her pleading at a clever moment, for she had left
Helena with a sense of pity, and pity means more to a woman than
conviction.

Poor old Hubert! She was glad now, oh so glad, that she had spared
him. It had been on her tongue yesterday, when he was so contemptuous
about her book being popular claptrap, herself an amateur, to answer:
"Well, I have found out about your own work too: it tries to be popular
and isn't,"--to tell him she had also learnt that one could write
without upsetting the whole household by one's fads and poses.... But
in the end she hadn't. Perhaps it was as Ruth had said: every one
would always spare him. Something, in any ca