Part 34 (1/2)

”Yes, we did,” Ruth replied shortly. There was 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. ”h.e.l.lo,” I heard her say. ”h.e.l.lo,” 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, s.h.i.+ning quality about her expression.

”That was Bob,” she said quietly.

”Bob?” I exclaimed.

”Bob Jennings?” e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed 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, with its few genuine articles, set off the jewel-like brightness of my sister in a startling fas.h.i.+on.

”You don't mean to say old Bob's turned up,” commented Will.

”Tell us,” bluntly I demanded, ”what in the world is Robert Jennings doing around here, Ruth?”

”Bob's been in town for several days,” she replied. ”He has just telephoned that he is called back on business. His train leaves in a little over an hour. He's dropping in here in ten minutes.”

”Why, I didn't know you even wrote to each other,” I said.

Ruth came over to the table and sat down in a low chair, stretching out her folded hands arms-length along the table's surface, and leaning toward us.

”I'm going to tell you two about it,” she announced with finality. ”I wrote to Bob,” she confessed, half proud, half apologetic. ”I wrote to Bob without any excuse at all, except that I wanted to tell him what I'd found out. I wanted to tell him that I had discovered that this sort of thing,” she opened her hands, and made a little gesture that included everything that those few small rooms of Oliver's epitomized, ”that this sort of thing,” she resumed, ”was what most women want more than anything else in the world. Any other activity was simply preparation, or courageous makes.h.i.+ft if this was denied. I made it easy for Bob, in my letter, to answer me in the spirit of friendly argument if he chose, but he didn't. He came on instead. We're going to be married,” she said, in a voice as casual as if she were announcing that they were going out for dinner.