this question from the Robert Jennings of a year ago—the same eyes, the same voice, the same persistent smile, and yet something gone out from them all.
"No, Bob," I replied, "I'm not going to look up Ruth." We seldom spoke of her. When we did it was briefly, and usually when Will happened to be absent.
"There's a suffrage parade in New York, Wednesday," Robert informed me. "While you're there, you know. Had you an idea that she might be in it?"
"Why, I shouldn't be a bit surprised," I allowed.
"Well, then, of course you'll see her," he brought out.
"Well, I might. It's possible. I shall see the parade, I hope. They say they're rather impressive."
"She's well?" asked Bob.
"She writes so," I told him briefly.
"And happy?"
"She seems so."
"What should you think of the idea of my seeing that parade, too?" he asked a little later.
"I shouldn't think very well of it, Bob."
"Should I be in the way?" he smiled, "interrupt yours and Will's tête-à-tête?"
"Oh, no, of course not. But—O Bob," I broke off, "why keep on thinking about Ruth? I wish you wouldn't. Life has such a lot else in it." He colored a little at my frankness. "Oh, I know you don't want me to talk about it, but I can't help it. You knew her such a little while, scarcely six months in all, and
