Deane turned away with a little exclamation of rage, rage that one person should have this clutch on the life of another, of two others--and one of them Ruth--sickened with a sense of the waste and the folly of it,--for what was _she_ getting out of it? he savagely put to himself. How could one get anything from life simply by holding another from it? "Does she know anything about Ruth?" he asked with an abrupt turn to Stuart. "She has mentioned her name several times lately and looked at me in doing it. She isn't one to speak directly of things," he added with a more subtle bitterness than that of a moment before. They sat there for a couple of minutes in silence--a helpless, miserable silence. When, after that, Deane stepped out into the waiting-room he found Ruth among those there; he only nodded to her and went back and told Stuart that she was there. "But it's only three," said he helplessly, "and she said she was coming at four." "Well, I suppose she came earlier than she intended," Deane replied, about as helplessly, and went over and stood looking out the window. After a moment he turned. "Better get it over with, hadn't you! She's got to be told," he said, a little less brusquely, as he saw the man wince,--"better get it over with." Stuart was silent, head down. After a moment he looked up at Deane. It was a look one would turn quickly away from. Again Deane stood looking from the window. He was considering something, considering a thing that would be very hard to do. After a moment he again abruptly turned around. "Well, shall I do it!" he asked quietly. The man nodded in a wretched gratefulness that went to Deane's heart. So he called Ruth in from the waiting-room. He always remembered just how Ruth looked that day; she had on a blue suit and a hat with flowers on it that was very becoming to her. She looked very girlish; he had a sudden sense of all the years he had known her. The smile with which she greeted Deane changed when she saw Stuart sitting there; the instant's pleased surprise went to apprehension at sight of his face. "What's the matter!" she asked sharply. "Stuart's rather bummed up, Ruth," said Deane. Swiftly she moved over to the man she loved. "What is it!" she demanded in quick, frightened voice. "Oh, just a bad lung," Deane continued, not looking at them and speaking with that false cheerfulness so hard fought for and of so little worth. "Don't amount to much--happens often--but, well--well, you see, he has to go away--for awhile." He was bending over his desk, fumbling among some papers. There was no sound in the room and at last he looked up. Stuart was not looking at Ruth and Ruth was standing there very still. When she spoke her voice was singularly quiet. "When shall we go?" she asked. CHAPTER TWELVE