MRS. HUNTER.  Is the black border broad enough?  They said it was the thing.

CLARA.  If you had it any broader, you’d have to get white ink to write with!

MRS. HUNTER. [Sweetly.] Don’t be impertinent, darling!

[Reading another letter.

[Enter MISS RUTH HUNTER. She is an unmarried woman between thirty and forty years of age, handsome, distinguished; an aristocrat, without any pretensions; simple, unaffected, and direct in her effort to do kindnesses where they are not absolutely undeserved.  She enters the room as if she carried with her an atmosphere of pure ozone.  This affects all those in it.  She is dressed in deep mourning and wears a thick chiffon veil, which she removes as she enters.

RUTH.  Oh! you’re having tea!

[Glad that they are.

MRS. HUNTER. [Taking a second cup.] I thought the children ought to.

RUTH.  Of course they ought and so ought you, if you haven’t.

MRS. HUNTER.  Oh, I’ve trifled with something.

JESSICA.  Sit here, Aunt Ruth.

BLANCHE.  Will you have a cup, Aunt Ruth?

RUTH.  Yes, dear, I’m feeling very hungry.

[Sitting on the sofa beside JESSICA and pressing her hand as she does so.

MRS. HUNTER.  Hungry! How can you!

RUTH.  Because I’m not a hypocrite!

MRS. HUNTER. [Whimpering.] I suppose that’s a slur at me!

RUTH.  If the slipper fits!  But I confess I haven’t eaten much for several days; I couldn’t touch anything this morning, and I begin to feel exhausted; I must have food and, thank Heaven, I want it.  Thank you.

[To BLANCHE, taking the cup from her.

MRS. HUNTER.  I think it’s awful, Ruth, and I feel I have a right to say it—­I think you owed it to my feelings to have worn a long veil; people will think you didn’t love your brother.

RUTH. [Dryly.] Will they?  Let them!  You know as well as I do that
George loathed the very idea of crepe and all display of mourning.

MRS. HUNTER. [Feeling out of her element, changes the subject.] You stayed behind?

RUTH.  Yes.  I wanted to be the last there. [Her voice chokes; she tries to control herself.] Ah! you see my nerves are all gone to pieces.  I won’t cry any more!

MRS. HUNTER.  I don’t see how you could bear it—­staying; but you never had any heart, Ruth.

RUTH. [Mechanically, biting her lips hard to keep the tears back.] Haven’t I?

MRS. HUNTER.  My darling husband always felt that defect in you.

RUTH.  George?

MRS. HUNTER.  He resented your treatment of me, and often said so.

RUTH. [Very quietly, but with determination.] Please be careful.  Don’t talk to me like this about my brother, Florence—­or you’ll make me say something I shall be sorry for.