“You mean,” she said, dully, trying to sense this calamity, “that you will never go back?  Never own—­that—­business?”

“It was a choice of giving you up or that.  Mother made that clear.  If I married you I should never have anything from them. ...”

She did not see the happiness that might lie for her in the possession of a husband whose love was so great that he could give up the kingdoms of the earth for her.  She could not see the strength of the boy, his loyalty, his honor.  All she saw was the crushing of her plan before it began to germinate. ...  She had given herself for the Cause.  She was here, this young man’s wife, alone in these rooms with him, because she loved the Cause and had martyred herself for it. ...  Her influence was to ameliorate the conditions of thousands of the Bonbright Foote laborers; she was to usher in a new era for them—­and for that she had offered herself up. ...  And now, having bound herself forever to this boy that she did not love—­loving another man—­the possibility of achievement was snatched from her and her immolation made futile.  It was as if she plunged into a rapids, offering her life to save a child that struggled there, to find, when she reached the little body, and it was too late to save herself, that it was a wax figure from some shop window. ...  But her position was worse than that; what she faced was worse than swift, merciful death. ...  It was years of a life of horrid possibilities, tied to a man whose chattel she was.  She stood up and clutched his arm.

“You’re joking,” she said, in a tense, metallic voice.

“I’m sorry, dear.  It’s very true.”

“Oh!” Her voice was a wail.  “It can’t be—­it can’t be.  I couldn’t bear that—­not that. ...”

Bonbright seized her by the arms and peered into her face.  “Ruth,” he said, “what do you mean?  Was that why you married me?  You’re not like those women I’ve heard about who married—­for money.”

“No. ...No...” she cried.  “Not that—­Oh, don’t believe that.”

She spoke the truth, and Bonbright could not doubt it.  Truth was in her words, her tone, her face. ...It was a thing she was incapable of, and he knew it.  She could not be mean, contemptible.  He drew her to him and kissed her, and she did not resent it.  A surge of happiness filled him. ...She had been dismayed because of him.  There was no other interpretation of her words and actions.  She was conscience stricken because she had brought misfortune upon him.

He laughed boyishly.  “Don’t worry about me.  I don’t care,” he said, gayly, “so long as I have you.  You’re worth it a dozen times. ...I’m glad, Ruth—­I’m glad I had to pay for you dearly.  Somehow it makes me seem worthier—­you understand what I mean. ...”

She understood—­understood, too, the interpretation he had put on her words.  It brought a flush to her white cheeks. ...She disengaged herself gently.