olicitously, "it isn't a book for you to read."

"That's very sweet and protective, Bob," she laughed gently, "but after
all I'm not--what do you call it--early Victorian. I'm twentieth
century, and an American at that. Every book printed is for me to read."

"Oh, no! I should hope not! Too much of this sort of stuff would rob a
girl of every illusion she ever had."

"Illusions! Oh, well," she shrugged her shoulders, "who wants illusions?
I don't. I want truth, Bob. I want to know everything there is to know
in this world, good, bad or indifferent. And you needn't be afraid. It
won't hurt me. Truth is good for any one, whether it's pleasant truth or
not. It makes one's opinions of more value, if nothing else. And of
course you want my opinions to be worth something, don't you?" she
wheedled.

"But, my dear," complained Bob, "this book represents more lies than it
does truth."

"Do you think so?" she asked earnestly. "Now I thought it was a
wonderfully true portrayal of just how a man and woman would feel under
those circumstances."

Bob looked actually pained. "O Ruth, how can you judge of such
circumstances? Of such feelings? Why, I don't like even to discuss such
rottenness with you as _this_."

"How absurd, Bob," Ruth deprecated lightly. "I'm not a Jane Austen sort
of girl. I've always read things. I've always read everything I wanted
to." Bob was still standing with the book in his hands, looking at it.
He didn't reply for a moment. Something especially obnoxious must have
met his eyes, for abruptly he threw the book down upon the table.

"Well," he said, "I'm going to ask you not to finish reading _this_."

"You aren't serious!"

"Yes, I am, Ruth," replied Bob. "Let me be the judge about this. Trust
it to me. You've read only a little of the book. It's worse
later--unpleasant, distorted. There are other avenues to truth--not this
one, please. Yes, I am serious."

He smiled disarmingly. For the first time since their engagement I saw
Ruth fail to smile back. There was a perceptible pause. Then in a low
voice Ruth asked, "Do you mean you ask me to stop reading a book right
in the middle of it? Don't ask me to do a childish thing like that,
Bob."

"But Ruth," he persisted, "it's to guard you, to protect you."

"But I don't want to be protected, not that way," she protested. Her
gray eyes were almost black. Her voice, though low and quiet enough,
trembled. They must have forgotten I was in the room.