She let her hand remain in his, and with eyes from which the terror was fading she looked into his eyes to find them clear, honest, filled with love and care for her.  They were good eyes, such as any bride might rejoice to find looking upon her from her husband’s face.

“You’re—­so good,” she whispered.  Then:  “I’m tired, Bonbright, so tired—­and—­Oh, you don’t understand, you can’t understand. ...  I’ll be different presently—­I know I shall.  Don’t be angry...”

“Angry!”

“I’ll be a good wife to you, Bonbright,” she said, tremulously, a bit wildly.  “I—­You sha’n’t be disappointed in me. ...  I’ll not cheat. ...  But wait—­wait.  Let me rest and think.  It’s all been so quick.”

“You asked that,” he said, hurt and puzzled.

“Yes. ...  It had to be—­and now I’m your wife... and I feel as if I didn’t know you—­as if you were a stranger.  Don’t you understand?...  It’s because I’m so helpless now—­just as if you owned me and could do what you wanted to with me... and it makes me afraid. ...”

“I—­I don’t understand very well,” he said, slowly.  “Maybe it’s because I’m a man—­but it doesn’t seem as if it ought to be that way.”  He stopped and regarded her a moment, then he said, “Ruth, you’ve never told me you loved me.”

She sensed the sudden fear in his voice and saw the question that had to be answered, but she could not answer it.  To-day she could not bring herself to the lie—­neither to the spoken lie nor the more difficult lying action.  “Not now,” she said, hysterically.  “Not to-day. ...  Wait. ...  I’ve married you.  I’ve given myself to you. ...  Isn’t that enough for now?...  Give me time.”

It was not resentment he felt, not doubt of her.  Her pitiful face, her cold little hands, the fear that lurked in her eyes, demanded his sympathy and forbearance, and, boy though he was, with all a boy’s inexperience, he was man enough to give them, intuitive enough to understand something of the part he must play until she could adjust herself to her new condition.

He pressed her hand—­and released it.  “I sha’n’t bother you,” he said, “until you want me. ...  But it isn’t because I don’t want you—­ don’t want to hold you—­to love you... and to have you love me. ...  It will be all right, dear.  You needn’t be afraid of me. ...”

The car was stopping before the hotel.  Now the doorman opened the door and Bonbright helped his bride to alight.  She tottered as her feet touched the sidewalk, and he took her arm to support her as he might have helped an invalid.  The elevator carried them up to the floor on which were the rooms that had been prepared for them, and they stopped before the door while he inserted the key and turned the lock for their admission.  On the threshold she halted, swept by a wave of terror, but, clenching her hands and pressing shut her eyes, she stepped within.  The door closed behind them—­closed out her girlhood, closed out her independence, shut away from her forever that ownership of herself which had been so precious, yet so unrecognized and unconsidered.  It seemed to her that the closing of that door—­even more than the ceremony of marriage—­was symbolical of turning over to this young man the title deeds of her soul and body. ...