Mrs. Morse took it upon herself to work slowly and indirectly upon Ruth, rather than to combat her.  There would be plenty of time for this, for Martin was not in position to marry.

“Let her see all she wants of him,” was Mr. Morse’s advice.  “The more she knows him, the less she’ll love him, I wager.  And give her plenty of contrast.  Make a point of having young people at the house.  Young women and young men, all sorts of young men, clever men, men who have done something or who are doing things, men of her own class, gentlemen.  She can gauge him by them.  They will show him up for what he is.  And after all, he is a mere boy of twenty-one.  Ruth is no more than a child.  It is calf love with the pair of them, and they will grow out of it.”

So the matter rested.  Within the family it was accepted that Ruth and Martin were engaged, but no announcement was made.  The family did not think it would ever be necessary.  Also, it was tacitly understood that it was to be a long engagement.  They did not ask Martin to go to work, nor to cease writing.  They did not intend to encourage him to mend himself.  And he aided and abetted them in their unfriendly designs, for going to work was farthest from his thoughts.

“I wonder if you’ll like what I have done!” he said to Ruth several days later.  “I’ve decided that boarding with my sister is too expensive, and I am going to board myself.  I’ve rented a little room out in North Oakland, retired neighborhood and all the rest, you know, and I’ve bought an oil-burner on which to cook.”

Ruth was overjoyed.  The oil-burner especially pleased her.

“That was the way Mr. Butler began his start,” she said.

Martin frowned inwardly at the citation of that worthy gentleman, and went on:  “I put stamps on all my manuscripts and started them off to the editors again.  Then to-day I moved in, and to-morrow I start to work.”

“A position!” she cried, betraying the gladness of her surprise in all her body, nestling closer to him, pressing his hand, smiling.  “And you never told me!  What is it?”

He shook his head.

“I meant that I was going to work at my writing.”  Her face fell, and he went on hastily.  “Don’t misjudge me.  I am not going in this time with any iridescent ideas.  It is to be a cold, prosaic, matter-of-fact business proposition.  It is better than going to sea again, and I shall earn more money than any position in Oakland can bring an unskilled man.”

“You see, this vacation I have taken has given me perspective.  I haven’t been working the life out of my body, and I haven’t been writing, at least not for publication.  All I’ve done has been to love you and to think.  I’ve read some, too, but it has been part of my thinking, and I have read principally magazines.  I have generalized about myself, and the world, my place in it, and my chance to win to a place that will be fit for you.  Also, I’ve been reading Spencer’s ‘Philosophy of Style,’ and found out a lot of what was the matter with me—­or my writing, rather; and for that matter with most of the writing that is published every month in the magazines.”