acious with the girls above the working-
class. They were all of the same flesh, after all, sisters under their
skins; and he might have known as much himself had he remembered his
Spencer. As he held Ruth in his arms and soothed her, he took great
consolation in the thought that the Colonel's lady and Judy O'Grady were
pretty much alike under their skins. It brought Ruth closer to him, made
her possible. Her dear flesh was as anybody's flesh, as his flesh. There
was no bar to their marriage. Class difference was the only difference,
and class was extrinsic. It could be shaken off. A slave, he had read,
had risen to the Roman purple. That being so, then he could rise to
Ruth. Under her purity, and saintliness, and culture, and ethereal
beauty of soul, she was, in things fundamentally human, just like Lizzie
Connolly and all Lizzie Connollys. All that was possible of them was
possible of her. She could love, and hate, maybe have hysterics; and she
could certainly be jealous, as she was jealous now, uttering her last
sobs in his arms.

"Besides, I am older than you," she remarked suddenly, opening her eyes
and looking up at him, "three years older."

"Hush, you are only a child, and I am forty years older than you, in
experience," was his answer.

In truth, they were children together, so far as love was concerned, and
they were as naive and immature in the expression of their love as a pair
of children, and this despite the fact that she was crammed with a
university education and that his head was full of scientific philosophy
and the hard facts of life.

They sat on through the passing glory of the day, talking as lovers are
prone to talk, marvelling at the wonder of love and at destiny that had
flung them so strangely together, and dogmatically believing that they
loved to a degree never attained by lovers before. And they returned
insistently, again and again, to a rehearsal of their first impressions
of each other and to hopeless attempts to analyze just precisely what
they felt for each other and how much there was of it.

The cloud-masses on the western horizon received the descending sun, and
the circle of the sky turned to rose, while the zenith glowed with the
same warm color. The rosy light was all about them, flooding over them,
as she sang, "Good-by, Sweet Day." She sang softly, leaning in the
cradle of his arm, her hands in his, their hearts in each other's hands.

CHAPTER XXII