he had called and asked for her, to be told that she was busy with school papers and must be excused.  Once he had ventured to invite her to go with Mrs. Stephen and himself to a carefully chosen play and a supper, but she had declined, gracefully enough—­but she had declined, and Mrs. Stephen also.  He could not make these people out, he told himself.  Did they and he live in such different worlds that they could never meet on common ground?

The Taming of the Shrew came to a triumphant end; the curtain fell upon the effective closing scene in which the lovely Shrew, become a richly loving and tender wife, without, somehow, surrendering a particle of her exquisite individuality, spoke her words of wisdom to other wives.  Richard smiled to himself as he heard the lines fall from Roberta’s lips.  And beneath his breath he said: 

“I don’t see how you can bring yourself to say them, you modern girl.  You’d never let a real husband feel his power that way, I’ll wager.  If you did—­well—­it would go to his head, I’m sure of that.  What an idiot I am to think I could ever make her look at me the way she looked even at that schoolgirl Petruchio—­with a clever imitation of devotion.  O Roberta Gray!  But I’d rather worship you across the footlights than take any other girl in my arms.  And somehow—­somehow I’ve got to make you at least respect me.  At least that, Roberta!  Then—­perhaps—­more!”

At Ruth’s side, when the play was ended, Richard hoped to attain at least the chance to speak to Ruth’s sister.  The young players all appeared upon the stage, the curtain being raised for the rest of the evening, and the audience came up, group by group, to offer congratulations and pour into gratified ears the praise which was the reward of labour.  Richard succeeded in getting by degrees into the immediate vicinity of Roberta, who was continuously surrounded by happy parents bent on presenting their felicitations.  But just as he was about to make his way to her side a diversion occurred which took her completely away from him.  A girl near by, who on account of physical frailty had had a minor part, grew suddenly faint, and in a trice Roberta had impressed into her service a strong pair of male arms, nearer at hand than Richard’s, and had had the slim little figure carried behind the scenes, herself following.

Ten minutes later he learned from Ruth that Roberta had gone back to Miss Copeland’s school with the girl, recovered but weak.

“Couldn’t anybody else have gone?” he inquired, considerable impatience in his voice.

“Of course—­lots of people could, and would.  Only it’s just like Rob to seize the chance to get away from this, and not come back.  You’ll see—­she won’t.  She hates being patted on the back, as she calls it.  I never can see why, when people mean it, as I’m sure they do to-night.  She’s the queerest girl.  She never wants what you’d think she would, or wants it the way other people do.  But she’s awfully dear, just the same,” Ruth hastened to add, fearful lest she seem to criticise the beloved sister.  “And somehow you don’t get tired of her, the way you do of some people.  Perhaps that’s just because she’s different.”