Part 12 (1/2)

”Why, Ruth,” he said solicitously, ”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 circ.u.mstances.”

Bob looked actually pained. ”O Ruth, how can you judge of such circ.u.mstances? 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.

”Is it such a lot to ask?” pleaded Bob.

”You _do_ ask it then?” repeated Ruth uncomprehendingly.

”Why, Ruth, yes, I do. If a doctor told you not to eat a certain thing,”

Bob began trying to be playful, ”that he knew was bad for you and----”

”But you're not my doctor,” interrupted Ruth. ”That's just it.

You're----It seems all wrong somehow,” she broke off, ”as if I was a child, or an ignorant patient of yours, and I'm not. I'm not. Will you pa.s.s it to me, please--the book?”

Bob gave it to her immediately. ”You're going to finish it then?” he asked, alarmed.

”I don't know,” said Ruth, wide-eyed, a little alarmed herself, I think.

”I don't know. I must think it over.” She crossed the room to the secretary, opened the gla.s.s door, and placed the book on one of the high shelves. ”There,” she said, ”there it is.” Then turning around she added, ”I'll let you know when I decide, Bob. And now I guess I'll go upstairs, if you don't mind. These walking-shoes are so heavy. Good-by.”

And she fled, on the verge of what I feared was tears.

Both Bob and Ruth were so surprised at the appearance of this sudden and unlooked-for issue that I felt convinced it was their first difference of opinion. I was worried. I couldn't foretell how it would come out.

Their friends.h.i.+p had been brief--perhaps too brief. Their engagement was only four weeks old. They loved--I was sure of that--but they didn't know each other very well. Old friend of Will's and mine as Robert Jennings is, I knew him to be conservative, steeped in traditions since childhood. Robert idealizes everything mellowed by age, from pictures and literature to laws and inst.i.tutions. Ruth, on the other hand, is a p.r.o.nounced modernist. It doesn't make much difference whether it's a hat or a novel, if it's new and up to date Ruth delights in it.