"You loved your--husband--very much?" Ruth winced. She could hardly resent the curiosity, but she stiffened. "Of course. But if I had not, I should have been--lonely and sad. It is a relationship that cannot be dissolved either by death or in any way without causing pain and a deep sense of loss." "Oh, yes, it can." Joyce spoke rapidly. "The loss may mean--life to you. It may take fear away and a hideous loathing. It may let you be yourself, the self that can breathe and learn to love goodness." This outburst surprised and confused Ruth Dale. The expression of face, voice and language swept away the sense of unreality and detachment. Here was a vital trouble. A tangible human call. It might be that she, instead of Ralph Drew or Constance, or any other person, might touch and rescue this girl who was finding herself among the ruins of her life. Ruth Dale was no common egotist, but her charm and magnetism had often taken her close to others' needs, and she was eager, always, to answer any demand made upon her. "Joyce," she said softly, "please let me call you that. You see, by that name I have always heard you called, and Constance Drew and I felt we knew you before we saw you. I believe you have suffered horribly. All women suffer in an unhappy marriage--but you suffered doubly because you have always been capable of better things, perhaps, than you have ever had. You do not mind my speaking very plainly?" "No. I want you to." "But you cannot find happiness--I know I am right about this--by taking from life what does not really belong to you. Do you see what I mean?" "No, but go on; I may see soon." The quiet face opposite made Ruth Dale more and more uncomfortable. She had, for a moment, forgotten the possibility of Gaston's return; the yellow gown was losing its irritating power; she truly had a great and consuming desire to be of service to this woman who was following her words with feverish intensity, but she was ill at ease as she proceeded. "If we have bungled our lives, made grave mistakes, it's better to abide by them courageously than defy--well, the accepted laws. "Perhaps you ought not go back to your husband; I would not dare decide that; Ralph Drew would know, but this I know, you should not stay here. I will befriend you, Joyce, in whatever other course you choose. Please let me help you; it would help me." She stretched her pretty, pleading hands across the table, and her eyes were full of tears. She felt old, and worldly-wise beside this mountain girl, and she was adrift on the alluring sea of personal service. Joyce took no heed of the waiting hands, the inspired face held her. "Don't you see, Joyce, even if this is love that controls you, you would not want it to be selfish?" "No. Oh! No."