Mrs. Lightener took Ruth into her arms and whispered, “He’s a dear, good boy. ...”  There was comfort in Mrs. Lightener’s arms, but scant comfort in her words, yet they would remain with Ruth and she would find comfort in them later.  Now she heard Malcolm Lightener speaking to her husband.  “You be good to that little girl, young man,” he said.  “Be mighty patient and gentle with her.”  She waited for Bonbright’s reply.  “I love her,” she heard Bonbright say in a low voice.  It was a good answer, a reassuring answer, but it stabbed Ruth with a new pang, for she had traded on that love; she was a cheat.  Bonbright was giving her his love in exchange for emptiness.  Somehow she could not think of the Cause now, for this was too intimate, too individual, too personal. ...

Presently Bonbright and Ruth were being driven to their hotel.  The thought of wedding breakfast or of festivities of any sort had been repugnant to Ruth, and Hilda had not insisted.  They were alone.  Ruth lay back against the soft upholstery of Malcolm Lightener’s limousine, colorless, eyes closed.  Bonbright watched her face hungrily, scrutinizing it for some sign of happiness, for some vestige of feeling that reciprocated his own.  He saw nothing but pallor, weariness.

“Dear,” he whispered, and touched her hand almost timorously.  Her hand trembled to his touch, and involuntarily she drew away from him.  Her eyes opened, and in them his own eager eyes read fear. ...  He was startled, hurt.  Being only a boy, with a boy’s understanding and a boy’s pride, he was piqued, and himself drew back.  This was not what he had expected, not what the romances he had read had led him to believe would take place.  In stories the bride was timid, yet eager; loving, yielding, happy.  She clung to her husband, her heart beating against his heart, whispering her adoration and demanding whispered adoration from him. ...  Here all of this was lacking, and something which crouched at the opposite pole of human emotion was present—­ fear.

“You must be patient and gentle with her,” Malcolm Lightener had said with understanding, and Bonbright was wise enough to know that there spoke experience; probably there spoke truth, not romance, as it is set down on the printed page.  Even if Ruth’s attitude were unusual, so the circumstances were unusual.  It was no ordinary marriage preceded by an ordinary, joyous courtship.  In this moment Bonbright took thought, and it was given him to understand that now, as at no other moment in his life with Ruth, was the time to exercise patience and gentleness.

“Ruth,” he said, taking her hand and holding it with both his own, “you mustn’t be afraid of me. ...  You are afraid.  You’re my wife,” he said, boyishly.  “It’s my job to make you happy—­the most important job I’ve got—­and to look after you and to keep away from you everything that might—­make you afraid.”  He lifted her fingers to his lips; they were cold.  “I want to take you in my arms and hold you... but not until you want me to.  I can wait. ...  I can do anything that you want me to do.  Both of us have just gone through unpleasant things—­and they’ve tired and worried you. ...  I wish I might comfort you, dear. ...”  His voice was low and yearning.