"Nor love and devotion either, I suppose," she said a little bitterly, "nor the protection of a fireside," she shrugged. "Such rewards are not given without service, I've heard. And service paid by love does not seem menial to me." Tom laid down his hat upon the table, and leaned forward. He had been observing Ruth keenly. I saw the flash of victory in his eye. Tom had never been in sympathy with Ruth's emancipation ideas, and I saw in her desire for a home and intimate associations the crumbling of her strongest defense against his disapproval. I wished I could come to her aid. Always my sympathies had instinctively gone out to her in the controversies that her theories gave rise to. Would Tom plant at last his flag upon her long-defended fortress? "This is odd talk for you, Ruth," said Tom. "Is it?" she inquired innocently. Did she not observe Tom calling together his forces for a last charge? "Certainly," he replied. "You gave up home, love, devotion--all that, when you might have had it, years ago. You emancipated yourself from the sort of service that is paid by the protection of a fireside." "Well?" she smiled, unalarmed. "You see your mistake now," he hurried on. "You make your mad dash for freedom, and now come seeking shelter. That is what most of 'em do. You tried freedom and found it lacking." "And what is your conclusion, Tom?" asked Ruth, baring herself, it seemed to me, to the onslaught of Tom's opposition. "My conclusion! Do I need even to state it?" he inquired, as if flourishing the flag before sticking its staff into the pinnacle of Ruth's defense. "Is it not self-evident? If you had married five years ago, today you would have a permanent family of your own instead of a borrowed one for eight months. Your freedom has robbed you of what you imply you desire--a home, I mean. My conclusion is that your own history proves that freedom is a dangerous thing for women." Ruth answered Tom quietly. I thrilled at her mild and gentle manner. We all listened intently.