ket, lean back luxuriously, and proceed to smoke. It was all very
intimate. A policeman passed me as I stood there staring.

"'Who lives there?' I asked him--and he told me. 'Oh, that's the Sewall
place,' he said, 'Young Breckenridge Sewall, you know.' I looked up at
the window again. The man was closing it now. Is he dark, quite dark,
stoops a little, with a receding forehead?" asked Robert of me.

I nodded. I couldn't speak.

"It was he, it was Sewall without a doubt. What is Ruth doing in that
house?" demanded Bob. "What is she doing, sitting there alone with that
man at nine o'clock at night--sewing? What does it mean? I didn't go in.
I walked back to the hotel and sat there, and then I went out and walked
again. What does it mean? For heaven's sake, Lucy--tell me what she's
doing there?"

"O Bob," I said tremblingly, "don't think anything awful about Ruth.
Whatever she's doing there, it's all right."

"You don't know," he groaned.

"I know Ruth, and that's enough. Of course she's all right. Don't let's
get absurd. I can't understand it, of course, but after all----"

"Oh, please," almost shuddered Bob, "don't let's talk about it. I don't
want to think about it. She has been such a beautiful memory, and
now--please don't talk about it."

"All right," I said and leaned back and gazed out of the window, stunned
by his news, frightened more than I dared to show.

We rumbled on in silence for half an hour. I was dimly aware that Bob
bought a magazine. Will joined us later, sat down, and fell off to
sleep. Bob got up and announced that he was going into the smoking-car.
His composure of the early afternoon had left him. He appeared nervous
and disturbed. He looked distressed. Just outside Providence he returned
to the car with a porter and began gathering up his belongings.

"What is it?" I asked.

"Nothing much," he replied shortly, "only I'm going back to New York.
I'm going back now--tonight, that's all."

CHAPTER XIX

RUTH RESUMES HER OWN STORY

I had no idea what I was undertaking when I went to New York. I had had
no experience with the difficulties that exist between announcing you
intend to live your own life, and living it. The world is a bewildering
place for one unused to it. All the savoir-faire and sophistication
acquired in reception-rooms didn't stand me in very good stead when it
came to earning my own living in New York City. I was timid, full of
fears--imaginary and real. I had