ould have been mine, Ruth. I could have married you the
moment you became a woman. Is that true?" "Yes," she whispered, "that is
perfectly true." The coldness that passed over her taught her for the
first time how truly she dreaded that marriage which had been postponed,
but which inevitably hung over her head.

"But I didn't want such a wife," continued John Mark. "You would have
been an undeveloped child, really; you would never have grown up. No
matter what they say, something about a woman is cut off at the root
when she marries. Certainly, if she had not been free before, she is a
slave if she marries a man with a strong will. And I have a strong will,
Ruth--very strong!"

"Very strong, John," she whispered again. He smiled faintly, as if there
were less of what he wanted in that second use of the name. He went on:
"So you see, I faced a problem. I must and would marry you. There was
never any other woman born who was meant for me. So much so good. But,
if I married you before you were wise enough to know me, you would have
become a slave, shrinking from me, yielding to me, incapable of loving
me. No, I wanted a free and independent creature as my wife; I wanted a
partnership, you see. Put you into the world, then, and let you see men
and women? No, I could not do that in the ordinary way. I have had to
show you the hard and bad side of life, because I am, in many ways, a
hard and bad man myself!"

He said it, almost literally, through his teeth. His face was fierce,
defying her--his eyes were wistful, entreating her not to agree with
him. Such a sudden rush of pity for the man swept over her that she put
out her hand and pressed his. He looked down at her hand for a moment,
and she felt his fingers trembling under that gentle pressure.

"I understand more now," she said slowly, "than I have ever understood
before. But I'll never understand entirely."

"A thing that's understood entirely is despised," he said, with a
careless sweep of his hand. "A thing that is understood is not feared. I
wish to be feared, not to make people cower, but to make them know when
I come, and when I go. Even love is nothing without a seasoning of fear.
For instance"--he flushed as the torrent of his speech swept him into a
committal of himself--"I am afraid of you, dear girl. Do you know what I
have done with the money you've won?"

"Tell me," she said curiously, and, at the same time, she glanced in
wonder, as a servant passed so