“Yes,” he answered.  “Just that.  Several times.”

She shivered and drew away from him.

“No man that I have ever known did that—­ever did that.”

“Then they never worked in the laundry at Shelly Hot Springs,” he laughed bitterly.  “Toil is a good thing.  It is necessary for human health, so all the preachers say, and Heaven knows I’ve never been afraid of it.  But there is such a thing as too much of a good thing, and the laundry up there is one of them.  And that’s why I’m going to sea one more voyage.  It will be my last, I think, for when I come back, I shall break into the magazines.  I am certain of it.”

She was silent, unsympathetic, and he watched her moodily, realizing how impossible it was for her to understand what he had been through.

“Some day I shall write it up—­’The Degradation of Toil’ or the ‘Psychology of Drink in the Working-class,’ or something like that for a title.”

Never, since the first meeting, had they seemed so far apart as that day.  His confession, told in frankness, with the spirit of revolt behind, had repelled her.  But she was more shocked by the repulsion itself than by the cause of it.  It pointed out to her how near she had drawn to him, and once accepted, it paved the way for greater intimacy.  Pity, too, was aroused, and innocent, idealistic thoughts of reform.  She would save this raw young man who had come so far.  She would save him from the curse of his early environment, and she would save him from himself in spite of himself.  And all this affected her as a very noble state of consciousness; nor did she dream that behind it and underlying it were the jealousy and desire of love.

They rode on their wheels much in the delightful fall weather, and out in the hills they read poetry aloud, now one and now the other, noble, uplifting poetry that turned one’s thoughts to higher things.  Renunciation, sacrifice, patience, industry, and high endeavor were the principles she thus indirectly preached—­such abstractions being objectified in her mind by her father, and Mr. Butler, and by Andrew Carnegie, who, from a poor immigrant boy had arisen to be the book-giver of the world.  All of which was appreciated and enjoyed by Martin.  He followed her mental processes more clearly now, and her soul was no longer the sealed wonder it had been.  He was on terms of intellectual equality with her.  But the points of disagreement did not affect his love.  His love was more ardent than ever, for he loved her for what she was, and even her physical frailty was an added charm in his eyes.  He read of sickly Elizabeth Barrett, who for years had not placed her feet upon the ground, until that day of flame when she eloped with Browning and stood upright, upon the earth, under the open sky; and what Browning had done for her, Martin decided he could do for Ruth.  But first, she must love him.  The rest would be easy.  He would give