“She’s lost,” said Bonbright, as Hilda came into the room.

“What?  Who are you talking about?”

“’Ruth. ...  She’s not with Dulac.  He doesn’t know where she is-she was never with him.”

“Did you think she was?” Hilda said, accusingly.  “You—­you’re so—­Oh, the pair of you!”

“Do you know where she is?”

“I haven’t seen nor heard of her since the day—­your father died.”

“Something must have happened. ...  She wouldn’t have gone away like that—­without telling anybody, even her mother. ...”

“She would,” said Hilda.  “She—­she was hurt.  She couldn’t bear to stay.  She didn’t tell me that, but I know. ...  And it’s your fault for—­for being blind.”

“I don’t understand.”

“She loved you,” said Hilda, simply.  “No. ...  She told me.  She never--loved—­me.  It was him.  She married me to—­”

“I know what she married you for.  I know all about it. ...  And she thought she loved him.  She found out she didn’t.  But I knew it for a long time,” Hilda said, womanlike, unable to resist the temptation to boast of her intuition.  “It all came to her that day—­and she was going to tell you. ...  She was going to do that—­going to go to you and tell you and ask you to take her back. ...  She said she’d make you believe her. ...”

“No,” said Bonbright, “you’re—­mistaken, Hilda.  She was my wife. ...  I know how she felt.  She couldn’t bear to have me pass close to her. ...”

“It is true,” Hilda said.  “She was going to you. ...  And then I came and told her your father was dead. ...  That made it all impossible, don’t you see?...  Because you knew why she had married you, and you would believe she came back to you because—­you owned the mills and employed all those men. ...  That’s what you would have believed, too. ...”

“Yes,” said Bonbright.

“And then—­it was more than she could bear.  To know she loved you and had loved you a long time—­and that you loved her.  You do, don’t you?”

“I can’t—­help it.”

“So that made it worse than anything that had gone before—­and she went away.  She didn’t tell even me, but I ought to have known. ...”

“And you haven’t even a trace?”

“Bonbright, if you find her—­what?”

“I don’t know. ...  I’ve just got to find her.  I’ve got to know what’s happened. ...”

“Are you going to tell her you love her—­and take her back?”

“She wouldn’t want me. ...  Oh, you think you are right, Hilda.  But I know.  I lived with her for weeks and I saw how she felt.  You’re wrong. ...  No, I’ll just find her. ...”

“And leave her as bad off as she was before.”

“I’ll do anything for her—­you know that.”

“Except the one thing she can’t do without. ...”

“You don’t understand,” he said, wearily.

“And you’re dense and blind—­and that’s what makes half the cruelty in the world.”