Until a few moments before Ruth had never had a suspicion of Bonbright's feeling for her; she had not imagined he would ever cross that distinct line which separates the friend from the suitor. It was an unpleasant surprise to her. Not that he was repugnant to her, but she had already bestowed her affections, and now she would have to hurt this boy who had already suffered so much at the hands of others. She recoiled from it. She blamed herself for her blindness, but she was not to blame. What she had failed to foresee Bonbright himself had realized only that morning.

He had awakened suddenly to the knowledge that his sentiment for Ruth Frazer was not calm friendship, but throbbing love. He had been awakened to it rudely, not as most young men are shown that they love…. When he flung out of his father's office that morning he had recognized only a just rage; hardly had his feet carried him over the threshold before rage was crowded out by the realization of love. His father's words had aroused his rage because he loved the woman they maligned! Suddenly he knew it….

"It's SO," he said to himself. "It's so—and I didn't know it."

It was disconcerting, but he was glad. Almost at once he realized what a change this thing brought into his life, and the major consequences of it…. First, he would have her—he must have her—he would not live without her. It required no effort of determination to arrive at that decision. To win her, to have her for his own, was now the one important thing in his life. To do so would mean—what would it mean? The Family, dead and living, would be outraged. His father would stand aghast at his impiousness; his mother, class conscious as few of the under dogs are ever class conscious, would refuse to receive this girl as her daughter…. There would be bitterness—but there would be release. By this one step he would break with the Family Tradition and the Family Ghosts. They would cast him out…. But would they cast him out? He was Bonbright Foote VII, crown prince of the dynasty, vested with rights in the family and in the family's property by family laws of primogeniture and entail…. No, he would not be cast out, could not be cast out, for his father would let no sin of his son's stand in the way of a perpetuation of the family. Bonbright knew that if a complete breach opened between his father and himself it must be his hand that opened it. His father's would never do so…. He wondered if he could do so—if, when he was calm, he would desire to do so.

Once he recognized his love he could not be still; office walls could not contain him. He was in a fever to see Ruth with newly opened eyes, with eyes that would see her as they had not seen her in the days before…. He rushed out—to encounter Hangar, and to experience a surging return of rage…. Then he went on, with no aim or purpose but to get rid of the time that must pass before he could see Ruth. It was ten o'clock, and he could not see her until five. Seven hours….

Now she was here, within reach of his hand, her face, not beautiful by day, very lovely to his eyes as the rising moon stretched a ribbon of light across the lake to touch her with its magic glow… and he could not find words to say what must be said.

He had seated her on the bench and now paced up and down before her, struggling to become coherent.

Then words came, a torrent of them, not coherent, not eloquent, but REAL. Ruth recognized the reality in them. "I want you," he said, standing over her. "I didn't know—I didn't realize… until to-day. It's so…. It's been so right along. That's why I had to come to you…. I couldn't get along without seeing you, but I didn't know why…. I thought it was to see you smile. But it was because I had to be near you…. I want to be near you always. This morning I found out—and all day I've waited to see you…. That's all I've done—thought about you and waited. It seems as if morning were years away…. I don't know what I've done all day—just wandered around. I didn't eat—until to-night. I couldn't. I couldn't do anything until I saw you—and told you…. That's why I brought you here…. I wanted to tell you HERE—not back there…. Away from all that. … I can't go on without you—that's what you mean to me. You're NECESSARY—like air or water…. I—Maybe you haven't thought about me this way. I didn't about you…. But you MUST… you MUST!"

It was pitiful. Tears wet Ruth's cheeks and she caught her breath to restrain a rising sob.

He became calmer, gentler. "Maybe I've surprised you," he said. "Maybe I've frightened you—I hope not. I don't mean to frighten you. I don't want you ever to be frightened or worried…. I want to keep all kinds of suffering out of your life if you'll let me. Won't you let me?…" He stood waiting.

"Mr. Foote," she said, presently, "I—" then she stopped. She had intended to tell him about Dulac; that she loved him and had promised to marry him, but she could not utter the words. It would hurt him so to know that she loved another man. She could refuse him without that added pain. "Don't you see," she said, "how impossible it is? It wouldn't do—even if I cared for you."

"If you cared for me," he said, "nothing could make it impossible."

"We belong in different worlds…. You couldn't come down to mine; I wouldn't fit into yours. My world wouldn't have you, and your world wouldn't have me…. Don't you see?"

"I don't see. What has your world or mine to do with it? It's just you and me."

"When you saw that your family wouldn't have me, when you found out that your friends wouldn't be friends with me, and that they didn't want to be friends with you any longer just because you married me …"

"I don't want any friends or family but you," he said, eagerly, boyishly.

"Be reasonable, Mr. Foote…. You're rich. Some day you'll be the head of a great business—with thousands of men working for you…. I belong with them. You must be against them…. I couldn't bear it. You know all about me. I've been brought up to believe the things I believe. My father and grandfather and HIS grandfather worked and suffered for them…. Just as your ancestors have worked and planned for the things you represent…. It wouldn't ever do. We couldn't be happy. Even if I—cared—and did as you ask—it wouldn't last."

"It would last," he said. "I KNOW. I've been trying to tell you, to make you believe that you have crowded everything else out of my life. There's just you in it…. It would last—and every day and every year it would grow—more wonderful."

"There must be agreement and sympathy between a husband and his wife, Mr. Foote…. Oh, I KNOW. In the bigger things. And there we could never agree. It would make trouble—trouble that couldn't be avoided nor dodged. It would be there with us every minute—and we'd know it. You'd know I hated the things you stand for and the things you have to do…. No man could bear that—to have his wife constantly reproaching him."

"I think," he said, "that your word would be my law…."

She sat silent, startled. Unasked, unsought, a thought had entered her mind; a terrifying thought, but a big and vital thought. HER WORD WOULD BE HIS LAW. Her influence would be upon him…. And he was master of thousands of her class. He would be master of more thousands…. If she were his wife—if her word might become his law—how would those laboring men be affected? Would her word be his law with respect to them?…

She did not love him, but she did love the Cause she represented, that her promised husband, Dulac, represented…. Her father had given his life for it. She had given nothing. Now she could give—herself…. She could sacrifice herself, she could pass by her love—but would it avail anything?… This boy loved her, loved her with all his strength and honesty. He would continue to love her. She believed that…. If, not loving him, she should marry him, she would be able to hold his love—and her word would be in some sort his law. She could influence him—not abruptly, not suddenly, but gradually, cleverly, cunningly. She could use him for her great purpose. Thousands of men might be happier, safer from hunger and misery, closer to a realization of their hope, if she gave herself to this boy…. She was filled with exaltation—a Joan of Arc listening to her Voices….

It was possible—possible…. And if it were possible, if she could accomplish this great thing for the Cause, dared she avoid it? Was it not a holy duty?

Remember her parentage, her training; remember that she had drawn into her being enthusiasm, fanaticism with the air she breathed in the very cradle. She was a revolutionist…. Greater crimes than loveless marriages have been committed in the name of Enthusiasm for a Cause.

She hesitated. What should she say?…. She must think, for a new face was upon the matter. She must think, and she must talk with Dulac. Dulac was stronger than she—but he saw eye to eye with her. The things she set up and worshiped in their shrines he worshiped more fervently…. She must put the boy off with evasion. She must postpone her answer until she was certain she saw her duty clearly.

Love of humanity in the mass was in her heart—it shouldered out fairness to an individual man. She did not think of this. If she had thought it might not have mattered, for if she were willing to immolate herself would she not have been as ready to sacrifice one man—for the good of thousands?

"I-" she began, and was dimly conscious of shame at her duplicity. "I did not know you—wanted me this way…. Let me think. I can't answer—to-night. Wait…. Give me time."

His voice was glad as he answered, and its gladness shamed her again. "Wait…. I'd wait forever. But I don't want to wait forever…. It is more than I hoped, more than I had the right to hope. I know I took you by surprise…. Let me have time and the chance to make you love me—to let you get used to the idea of my loving you. But try not to be long. I'm impatient—you don't know how impatient…."

"I-I sha'n't be long," she said. "You mustn't build too many hopes…."

He laughed. She had never heard him laugh with such lightness, with such a note of soul-gladness, before. "Hope…. I shall eat and drink hope—until you—come to me. For you will come to me. I know it…. It couldn't be any other way." He laughed again, gayly. And then from out the blackness of the surrounding shrubbery there plunged the figure of a man….

Before Bonbright could lift a hand to shield himself blows began to fall, blows not delivered with the naked fist. Once, twice, again the man struck with the strength of frenzy. Ruth sat silent, stunned, paralyzed by fright, and uttered no scream. Then she saw the face of Bonbright's assailant. It was Dulac—and she understood.

She sprang to him, clutched at his arm, but he hurled her off and struck again…. It was enough. Bonbright stood wavering a moment, struggling to remain upright, but sagging slowly. Then he slumped to the ground in a sort of uncanny sitting posture, his head sunk upon his knees.

Ruth stood looking down upon him with horror-widened eyes. Dulac hurled his weapon into the bushes and turned upon her furiously, seizing her arm and dragging her to him so that his eyes, glowing with unreason, could burn into hers.

"Oh—" she moaned.

"I've taught him," Dulac said, his voice quivering with rage. "It was time… the vermin. Because he was rich he thought he was safe. He thought he could do anything…. But I've taught him. They starve us and stamp on us—and then steal our wives and smirch our sweethearts."

Ruth tried to bend over Bonbright, to lift his head, to give him assistance, but Dulac jerked her away.

"Don't touch him. Don't dare to touch him," he said.

"He doesn't—move," she said, in a horrified whisper. "Maybe you've-killed him."

"He deserved it…. And you—have you anything to say? What are you doing here—with him?"

"Let me go," she panted. "Let me see—I must see. He can't be—dead. … You—you BEAST!" she cried, shrilly. "He was good. He meant no harm…. He loved me, and that's why this happened. It's my fault—my fault."

"Be still," he commanded. "He loved you—you admit it. You dare admit it—and you here alone with him at night."

"He asked—me—to—marry—him," she said, faintly. "He was not—what you think…. He was a good—boy."

Suddenly she tried to break from him to go to Bonbright, but he clutched her savagely. "Help!… Help!…" she cried. Then his hand closed over her mouth and he gathered her up in his arms and carried her away.

He did not look behind at Bonbright huddled there with the ribbon of moonlight pointing across the lake at his limp body, but half staggered, half ran to his waiting car…. A snarled word, and the engine started. Ruth, choking, helpless, was carried away, leaving Bonbright alone and still….