Third in the order of her griefs was the consciousness that she had caused Bonbright grief.  She dealt ungently with herself because of it, for Bonbright had not deserved it at her hands.  She could appreciate how good he had been to her, how solicitous, how patient, how tender.  If a man ever deserved well of a woman, he deserved it.  She told herself that a hundred times daily.  She remembered small thoughtfulnesses which had been a part of his daily conduct to her.  She recalled small forbearances.  She pictured to herself the life they had lived together, and saw how it was only the character of her husband that had made it possible at all. ...  And in the end he had not uttered one word of censure; had not even looked at her with just anger. ...  There had been no pretense about him, no labored effort to be kind.  He had simply been himself.

These were her thoughts; this is how she remembered him. ...

The house was unbearably lonely.  As evening approached she found herself more than once listening for Bonbright’s step on the stairs and his hand on the door. ...  At such times she cried.  She puzzled herself.  She did not understand why she should be so lonely, nor why the expectation of Bonbright’s step—­with quick awakening to the knowledge that no foot of his would ever sound at her door again—­ should bring her tears. ...  She knew she should have been glad, relieved.  With Bonbright she had lived in daily dread.  She had not loved him, and the fear that his restraint would break, that he would force his love upon her, had made her days a ghastly dream. ...  She should be crying out with the joy and relief of his removal.  But she felt no relief, felt no joy. ...  She could not understand it.

If Hilda Lightener, who came often and stayed long, had asked her if she missed Bonbright or were lonely without him, she would have denied it hotly.  But Hilda did not ask. ...  Ruth did not ask that question of herself.  She knew she was lonely, miserable, and she thought she knew why—­but Bonbright’s absence had nothing to do with it.

Hilda watched, she did not talk about Bonbright, for she saw her task was to help Ruth over these first few days.  Her suspicions were her own, but, being a woman, she understood the baffling psychology of another woman and what harm a premature word might work. ...  If the thing she believed were true, then time would bring its realization to Ruth.  Ruth must discover the truth for herself. ...

“I can’t stand this,” Ruth said one evening.  “I can’t bear to stay here alone in these rooms.  If there were work enough to keep me busy —­but there’s nothing.”

“If you’d only go the places I ask you to,” said Hilda.

“I don’t want to meet people—­your sort of people.  They must know what has happened. ...  I couldn’t have them looking at me with their catty, curious eyes.”

“Most of them would be very kind,” Hilda said.