When Warham departed down the walk Ruth rose; she could not bear being alone with her triumphant rival--triumphant because unconscious. She knew that to get Sam to herself all she would have to do would be to hint to Susan, the generous, what she wanted. But pride forbade that. As her hand was on the knob of the screen door, Susan said: "Why don't you like Sam?" "Oh, I think he's stuck-up. He's been spoiled in the East." "Why, I don't see any sign of it." "You were too flattered by his talking to you," said Ruth, with a sweet-sour little laugh--an asp of a sneer hid in a basket of flowers. Susan felt the sting; but, seeing only the flowers, did not dream whence it had come. "It _was_ nice, wasn't it?" said she, gayly. "Maybe you're right about him, but I can't help liking him. You must admit he's handsome." "He has a bad look in his eyes," replied Ruth. Such rage against Susan was swelling within her that it seemed to her she would faint if she did not release at least part of it. "You want to look out for him, Susie," said she, calmly and evenly. "You don't want to take what he says seriously." "Of course not," said Susan, quite honestly, though she, no more than the next human being, could avoid taking seriously whatever was pleasantly flattering. "He'd never think of marrying you." Ruth trembled before and after delivering this venomous shaft. "Marrying!" cried Susan, again quite honestly. "Why, I'm only seventeen." Ruth drew a breath of relief. The shaft had glanced off the armor of innocence without making the faintest dent. She rushed into the house. She did not dare trust herself with her cousin. What might the demon within her tempt her to say next? "Come up, Ruth!" called her mother. "The dress is ready for the last try-on. I think it's going to hang beautifully." Ruth dragged herself up the stairs, lagged into the sitting-room, gazed at the dress with a scowl. "What did father say?" she asked. "It's no use trying to do anything with your father." Ruth flung herself in a corner of the sofa. "The only thing I can think of," said her mother, humbly and timidly, "is phone the Sinclairs as I originally set out to do." "And have the whole town laughing at me. . . . Oh, what do I care, anyhow!" "Arthur Sinclair's taller and a sight handsomer. Right in the face, Sam's as plain as Dick's hatband. His looks is all clothes and polish--and mighty poor polish, I think. Arthur's got rise in him, too, while Sam--well, I don't know what'd become of him if old Wright lost his money." But Arthur, a mere promise, seemed poor indeed beside Sam, the actually arrived. To marry Sam would be to step at once into grandeur; to marry Arthur would mean years of struggle. Besides, Arthur was heavy, at least seemed heavy to light Ruth, while Sam was her ideal of gay elegance. "I _detest_ Arthur Sinclair," she now announced.