another pause. Then in a low, troubled voice Ruth added, "But not now. We're not friends now. Something happened. All her affection for me has died. I have never been forgiven for something."
"Oh, I wouldn't be so sure," belittled Will, making violent signs to me to announce the news we bore.
I had a clipping in my shopping-bag cut from the morning paper. I took it out of the envelope that contained it.
"Ruth," I began, "here's something I ran across today."
The telephone interrupted sharply.
"Just a minute," she said, and slid down off the chest and went out into the hall. "Hello," I heard her say. "Hello," and then in a changed voice, "Oh, you?" A pause and then, "Really? Tonight?" Another pause, and more gently. "Of course you must. Of course I do," and at last very tenderly, "Yes, I'll be right here. I'll be waiting. Good-by."
I looked at Will, and he lifted his eyebrows. Ruth came back and stood in the doorway. There was a peculiar, shining quality about her expression.
"That was Bob," she said quietly.
"Bob?" I exclaimed.
"Bob Jennings?" ejaculated Will.
Ruth nodded and smiled. Standing there before us, dressed simply in the plain black smock, cheeks flushed, eyes like stars, she reminded me of some rare stone in a velvet case. The bareness of the room,
