"Ruthie, we'll forget it," he said, in a changed voice. "I was too old for you, I am afraid. I ought not to have asked you to marry me. But it's done now, past mending, and we must make the best of it. But we'll begin all over again, my poor little girl." For his wife had always seemed to him a child, an impulsive, lovely child; a little spoiled, no doubt, but enchantingly sweet and dear. Her affection for him, as far as it went, had been sincere; he had comprehended that from the beginning. And alluring though she was to him in her young beauty, he would not have married her without it; her consent, even her willing consent, would not have been enough. And now it seemed to him that he could go back to that girlish liking, that he could foster it and draw it out. He had not protected her from her own fancies, he had not guarded her or guided her. Now he would make her more a part of his life; he would no longer think of her as a child. He had come to her as he spoke. This time she did not draw herself away; but, looking at him with the same fixed gaze, she went on. She had been speaking slowly, but now her words came pouring forth in a flood as though she felt that it was the only way in which she could get them spoken at all; each brief phrase was hurried out with a quick pant. "Oh, you don't understand. You think it was a fancy. But it wasn't, it wasn't; I _loved_ him! I was going to stay with him forever. I would have gone to the ends of the earth with him. I would never have asked a question. I hadn't the least hesitation; you mustn't think that I had. I sang to myself as I rode out here, I was so happy and glad. I didn't care what became of you; I didn't even think of you. If he had been alone at The Lodge, I should have gone straight into his arms. And you might have come in, and I shouldn't have minded; I shouldn't even have known you were there! From the moment I started, you were nothing to me--nothing; you didn't exist! I am as guilty as a woman can be. I had every intention, every inclination. What was lacking was _his_ will; but never mine! It was only twelve hours ago. I haven't changed in that time. The only change is that now I know he doesn't care for _me_. I would have accepted anything--yes, anything. It was only twelve hours ago, and if he _had_ been alone at The Lodge, whether he really loved me or not, he would not have--turned me out." "No; damn him!" answered Chase. "And _I_ should have been glad to stay," Ruth concluded, inflexibly. Her husband turned away. It was a strong man's anguish. He sat down by the fire, his face covered by his hands. Into the pause there now came again the strains of Portia's hymn in the kitchen--that verse about "the peerly gates" which she was hopefully singing a second time to Dave. Then, in the silence that followed, the room seemed filled with the rushing sound of the rain.