Bonbright had disobeyed the physician's orders to stay in bed all day, but when he arose he discovered that there are times when even a restless and impatient young man is more comfortable with his head on a pillow. So until evening he occupied a lounge with what patience he could muster. So it was that Rangar had no news of him during the day and was unable to relieve his father's increasing anxiety. Mr. Foote was not anxious now, but frightened; frightened as any potentate might be who perceived that the succession was threatened, that extinction impended over his line.

Bonbright scarcely tasted the food that was brought him on a tray at six o'clock. He was afire with eagerness, for the hour was almost there when he could go to Ruth for her answer. He arose, somewhat dizzily, and demanded his hat, which was given him with protests. It was still too early to make his call, but he could not stay away from the neighborhood, so he took a taxicab to Ruth's corner, and there alighted. For half an hour he paced slowly up and down, eying the house, picturing in his mind Ruth in the act of accepting him or Ruth in the act of refusing him. One moment hope flashed high; the next it was quenched by doubt…. He saw Dulac leave the house; waited another half hour, and then rang the doorbell.

Mrs. Frazer opened the door.

"Evening, Mr. Foote," she said, without enthusiasm, for she had not approved of this young man's calls upon her daughter.

"Miss Frazer is expecting me," he said, diffidently, for he was sensitive to her antagonism.

"In the parlor," said she, "and no help with the dishes, which is to be expected at her age, with first one young man and then another, which, if she gets any pleasure out of it, I'm not one to deny her, though not consulted. If I was starting over again I'd wish it was a son to be traipsing after some other woman's daughter and not a daughter to have other women's sons traipsing after…. That door, Mr. Foote. Go right in."

Bonbright entered apprehensively, as one might enter a court room where a jury was about to rise and declare its verdict of guilty or not guilty. He closed the door after him mechanically.

"Ruth…" he said.

Her face, marked with tears, not untouched by suffering, startled him.
"Are you—ill?" he said.

"Just—just tired" she said.

"Shall I go?… Shall I come again to-morrow?"

"No." She was aware of his concern, of the self-effacing thoughtfulness of his offer. He was a good boy, decent and kind. He deserved better than he was getting…. She bit her lips and vowed that, giving no love, she would make him happy. She must make him happy.

"You know why I've come, Ruth," he said. "It has seemed a long time to wait—since last night. You know why I've come?"

"Yes."

"You have—thought about me?"

"Yes."

He stepped forward eagerly. "You look so unhappy, so tired. It hasn't been worrying you like this? I couldn't bear to think it had…. I—I don't want you ever worried or tired, but always—glad…. I've been walking up and down outside for an hour. Couldn't stay away…. Ruth, you haven't been out of my mind since last night—since yesterday morning. I've had time to think about you…. I'm beginning to realize how much you mean to me. I'll never realize it fully—but it will come to me more every day, and every day I shall love you more than I did the day before—if your answer can be yes. …" He turned away his head and said, "I'm afraid to ask…."

"I will marry you," she said, in a dead voice. She felt cold, numb. Her body seemed without sensation, but her mind was sharply clear. She wanted to scream, but she held herself.

His face showed glad, relieved surprise. The shine of his eyes accused her…. She was making capital of his love—for a great and worthy purpose—but none the less making capital of it. She was sorry for him, bitterly sorry for herself. He came forward eagerly, with arms outstretched to receive her, but she could not endure that—now. She could not endure his touch, his caress.

"Not now…. Not yet," she said, holding up her hand as though to ward him off. "You mustn't."

His face fell and he stopped short. He was hurt—surprised. He did not understand, did not know what to make of her attitude.

"Wait," she said, pitifully. "Oh, be patient with me…. I will marry you. I will be a good—a faithful wife to you…. But you must be patient with me. Let me have time…. Last night—and all to-day-have been—hard…. I'm not myself. Can't you see?…"

"Don't you love me?" he asked.

"I—I've said I would marry you," she replied. Then she could restrain herself no longer. "But let it be soon—soon," she cried, and throwing herself on the sofa she burst into tears.

Bonbright did not know what to do. He had never seen a woman cry so before…. Did girls always act this way when they became engaged? Was it the usual thing, or was something wrong with Ruth? He stood by, dumbly waiting, unhappy when he knew he should be happy; troubled when he knew there should be no cloud in his sky; vaguely apprehensive when he knew he should be looking into the future with eyes confident of finding only happiness there.

He wanted to pick her up and comfort her in his arms. He could do it, he could hold her close and safe, for she was so small. But he dared not touch her. She had forbidden it; her manner had forbidden it more forcefully than her words. He came closer, and his hand hovered over her hair, her hair that he would have loved to press with his lips-he, he did not dare.

"Ruth," he said…. "Ruth!"

Suddenly she sat up and faced him; forced herself to speak; compelled herself to rise to this thing that she had done and must see through.

"I'm—ashamed," she said, irrepressible sobs interrupting her. "It's silly, isn't it—but—but it's hard to KNOW. It's for so long—so LONG!"

"Yes," he said, "that's the best part of it…. I shall have you always."

Always. He should have her always! It was no sentence for a month or a year, but for life. She was tying herself to this boy until death should free her…. She looked at him, and thanked God that he was as he was, young, decent, clean, capable of loving her and cherishing her…. For her sake she was glad it was he, but his very attributes accused her. She was accepting these beautiful gifts and was giving in return spurious wares. For love she would give pretense of love. … Yet if he had been other than he was, if he had been old, seeking her youth as some men might seek it, steeped in experience to satiety as some rich man might have been, she knew she could not have gone through with it. To such a man she could not have given herself—even for the Cause…. Bonbright made his own duping a possibility.

"I—I sha'n't act this way again," she said, trying to smile. "You needn't be afraid…. It's just nerves."

"Poor kid!" he said, softly, but even yet he dared not touch her.

"You want me? You're very, very sure you want me? How do you know? I may not be what you think I am. Maybe I'm different. Are you sure, Bonbright?"

"It's the only thing in the world I am sure of," he said.

"And you'll be good to me?… You'll be patient with me, and gentle?
Oh, I needn't ask. I know you will. I know you're good…."

"I love you," was his reply, and she deemed it a sufficient answer.

"Then," she said, "let's not wait. There's no need to wait, is there?
Can't it be right away?"

His face grew radiant. "You mean it, Ruth?"

"Yes," she said.

"A month?"

"Sooner."

"A week?"

"Sooner…. Sooner."

"To-morrow? You couldn't?… You don't mean—TO-MORROW?"

She nodded, for she was unable to speak

"Sweetheart," he cried, and again held out his arms.

She shook her head and drew back. "It's been so—so quick," she said. "And to-morrow comes so soon…. Not till then. I'll be your wife then—your WIFE."

"To-morrow morning? I will come to-morrow morning? Can it be then?"

"Yes."

"I—I will see to everything. We'll be married, and then we will go away—somewhere. Where would you like to go, Ruth?"

"Anywhere…. I don't care. Anywhere."

"It 'll be my secret," he said, in his young blindness. "We'll start out—and you won't know where we're going. I sha'n't tell you. I'll pick out the best place in the world, if I can find it, and you won't know where we're going till we get there…. Won't that be bully?… I hate to go now, dear, but you're all out of sorts—and I'll have a heap of things to do—to get ready. So will you." He stopped and looked at her pleadingly, but she could not give him what his eyes asked; she could not give him her lips to-night…. He waited a moment, then, very gently, he took her hand and touched it with his lips.

"I'm patient," he said, softly. "You see how patient I am…. I can wait… when waiting will bring me so much…. At twelve o'clock? That's the swell hour," he laughed. "Shall I drag along a bishop or will an ordinary minister do?"

She tried to smile in response.

"Good night, dear," he said, and raised her hand again to his lips.

"Good night."

"Is that all?"

"All."

"No—trimmings? You might say good night to the groceryman that way."

"Good night—dear," she said, obediently.

"It's true. I'm not dreaming it. Noon TO-MORROW?"

"Noon to-morrow," she repeated.

He walked to the door, stopped, turned, hesitated as if to come back. Then he smiled at her boyishly, happily, wagged his head gayly, as though admonishing himself to be about his business and to stop philandering, and went out…. He did not see her drag herself to the sofa wearily; he did not see her sink upon it and bury her face again in the cushions; he did not hear the sobs that wrenched and shook her…. He would then have understood that this was not the usual way for a girl to enter her engagement. He would have understood that something was wrong, very wrong.

After waiting a long time for her daughter to come out, Mrs. Frazer opened the door determinedly and went in. Ruth sat up and, wiping her eyes on a tear-soggy handkerchief, said:

"I'm going to marry Bonbright Foote to-morrow noon mother."

Mrs. Frazer sat down very suddenly in a chair which was fortunately at hand, and stared at her daughter.

"Of all things…" she said, weakly.

Bonbright was on the way to make a similar announcement to his parents. It was a task he did not approach with pleasure; indeed, he did not look forward with pleasure to any sort of meeting with his father. In his heart he had declared his independence. He had broken away from Bonbright Foote, Incorporated, had clambered out of the family groove—had determined to be himself and to maintain his individuality at any cost…. Ruth would make it easier for him. To marry Ruth was the first great step toward independence and the throwing off of the yoke of the Foote tradition.

As he walked home he planned out what he would say and what he would do with respect to his position in the family. He could not break away from the thing wholly. He could not step out of Bonbright Foote, Incorporated, as one steps out of an old coat, and think no more of it. No…. But he would demand concessions. He would insist upon being something in the business, something real. He would no longer be an office boy, a rubber stamp, an automaton, to do thus and to do so when his father pressed the requisite buttons…. Oh, he would go back to the office, but it would be to a very different office and to function in a very different manner.

The family ghosts had been dissatisfied with him. Well, they could go hang. Using his father as the working tool, they had sought to remake him according to their pattern. He would show them. There would be a row, but he was buoyed up for whatever might happen by what had just happened…. The girl he loved had promised to marry him—and to-morrow. With a consciousness of that he was ready for anything.

He did not realize how strongly he was gripped by the teaching that had been his from his cradle; he did not realize how the Foote tradition was an integral part of him, as his arm or his skin. It would not be so easy to escape. Nor, perhaps, would his father be so ready to make concessions. He thought of that. But he banished it from his mind. When his father saw how determined he was the concessions would follow. They would have to follow. He did not ask himself what would happen if they did not follow.

Of course his father and mother would resent Ruth. Because Bonbright loved her so truly he was unable to see how anybody could resent her very much. He was blinded by young happiness. Optimism had been born in him in a twinkling, and set aside a knowledge of his parents and their habits of thought and life that should have warned him. He might have known that his father could have overlooked anything but this—the debasing of the Foote blood by mingling with it a plebeian, boarding-house strain; he might have comprehended that his mother, Mrs. Bonbright Foote VI, no less, could have excused crime, could have winked at depravity, but could never tolerate a daughter-in-law of such origin; would never acknowledge or receive her.

As a last resort, to save Bonbright Foote, Incorporated, his father might even submit to Bonbright's wife; his mother did not bow so low before that god; her particular deity was a social deity. If Bonbright's argosy did not wreck against the reef of his father, it never could weather the hidden rock of his mother's class consciousness.

Bonbright went along, whistling boyishly. He was worried, but not so worried but that he could find room also to be very happy. Everything would come out all right…. Young folks are prone to trust implicitly to the goodness of the future. The future will take care of troubles, will solve difficulties, will always bring around a happy ending. He was not old enough or experienced enough to know that the future bothers with nobody's desires, but goes on turning out each day's work with calm detachment, continues to move its endless film of tomorrow's events to the edge of its kingdom and to give them life on the screen of to-day. It does not change or retouch the film, but gives it to to-day as it is, relentlessly, without pity and without satisfaction.

Bonbright saw the future as a benignant soul; he did not realize it is a nonsentient machine.