now that
his eyes were opened, that in Ruth's manner to indicate something in her
life which did not appear on the surface. He saw how nervous she
was--how strained at times, how worried and cross, which was not like
Ruth at all. There were times when her eyes were imploring, times when
they were afraid, again there were moments of that lovely calm, when
feeling deep and beautiful radiated from her, as it had that night they
sat on the steps and, drawn by something in her, he had to tell her that
he loved her. She did queer unreasonable things, would become
exasperated at him for apparently nothing at all. Once when she had told
him she was going somewhere with her mother he later saw her hurrying by
alone; another time she told him she was going to Edith's, and when he
called up there, wanting to take them both with him for a long trip he
had to make into the country, Edith said Ruth had not been there.
Thoughts that he did not like, that he could not believe, came into his
mind. He was not only unhappy, but he grew more and more worried about
Ruth.

That went on for several months, and then one day late that same summer
she came to him with the truth. She came because she had to come. He was
a doctor; he was her friend; she was in a girl's most desperate plight
and she had no one else to turn to. It was in his office that she told
him, not looking at him, her face without color and drawn out of shape,
her voice quick, sharp, hard, so unlike Ruth's sweet voice that without
seeing her he would not have known it. She threw out the bare facts at
him as she sat there very straight, hands gripped. He was stupefied at
first, but it was fury which then broke through, the fury of knowing it
was _this_, that not only was he not to have Ruth, but that another man
_had_ her, the fury that rose out of the driving back of all those loose
ends of hope that had eased pain a little. And _Ruth_--_this_! He little
knew what things he might not have said and done in those first moments
of failing her, turning on her because he himself was hurt beyond his
power to bear. And then Ruth spoke to him. "But I thought you believed
in love, Deane," she said, quietly.

"_Love!_" he brutally flung back at her.

"Yes, Deane, love," she said, and the simplicity, the dignity of her
quiet voice commanded him and he had to turn from himself to her. She
was different now; she looked at him, steadily, proudly. Out of the
humiliation of her situation