most eager wish to be free.  He was thinking first of the light in which he, himself, would be placed.  After this he was considering Philip Alston’s view of his conduct.  Knowing that he wished the marriage to take place, William Pressley felt reasonably sure that Philip Alston would be displeased at any breach, and that he would make his displeasure felt, should the first movement toward the breaking of the engagement come from himself.  The displeasure of Philip Alston was not a thing to be lightly incurred at any time.  No one knew this better than William Pressley, and he saw it to be particularly undesirable to displease him and possibly incur his enmity, just at the moment when his good-will might be useful in the matter of the appointment.  William Pressley did not believe Philip Alston’s influence to be at all essential—­merit was in his opinion the only essential.  Still it seemed best, under the circumstances, to let the engagement stand till a time more auspicious for breaking it.  And then his sore self-love found some balm in the girl’s self-reproach, which he saw plainly enough, without understanding it in the least.  It was like him to consider the effect which the breaking of the engagement might have on his political prospects, and to postpone it on the bare chance of its affecting them adversely.  But it was still more like him merely to postpone it with an immovable determination in his mind, utterly unaffected by all the girl’s winning gentleness and open regret.  And it was most of all like him never for an instant to allow any thought of Philip Alston’s fortune to make him waver.  All the gold in the world could have done nothing to make William Pressley forget, or forgive, the wound which his self-love had received.

She continued for a while in her shy, gentle efforts to win him back to something like the old friendliness, which had existed between them before they had become engaged to be married.  It was this which she longed to have restored, with her craving for affection and her dread of hard feeling.  But despairing at last, she arose with a sigh and went to the hearth, and began talking to the two old ladies, who left off quarrelling when she came, as they nearly always did.  From the hearth she turned to the supper-table, to give it the delicate finishing touches, and then there was a general movement as the family settled into their places.

It seemed to David that the meal would never end, that he should never be able to tell Ruth.  As he sat looking down at his untasted food, and had time to think, he came gradually to understand something of the meaning of the young doctor’s sudden agitation, his solemn message, and his hurried departure.  The boy could not keep his distress out of his face, and Ruth saw it in her first glance at him across the table.  In the shadows of the room she had not seen him distinctly until now, and the sight of his trouble touched her as it never failed to do even when she believed it to be imaginary.  As soon as possible she left the table and went to the door, glancing at him over her shoulder.  He followed instantly and, passing her swiftly as she stood in the doorway, he beckoned her to come outside.