"Steady there, old girl," jibed Will. "Is Bob such a terrific master as all that?" "That's not the point, Will. Convention is the master--that's what the woman said. It isn't free of men we're trying to be." "We! we! Come, Ruth. You aren't one of them in an hour, are you? Better wait and consult Bob first." "Oh, Bob will agree with me. I know he will. It's such a progressive idea. And I _am_ one of them. I'm proud to be. I'm going to march in the parade next week." I came to life at that. "Oh, Ruth, not really--not in Boston!" "What? Up the center of Washington Street in French heels and a shadow veil?" scoffed Will. "Up the center of Washington Street in something," announced Ruth, "if that's the line of march. Remember, Will, French heels and shadow veils have been my stock in trade, and not through any choice of mine, either. So don't throw them at me, please." Will subsided. "Well, well, what next? A raring, tearing little suffragette, in one afternoon, too!" Ruth went upstairs. "Poor old Bob," remarked Will to me when we were alone. CHAPTER XV ANOTHER CATASTROPHE I didn't know whether it was more "poor old Bob" or "poor old Ruth." Ruth was so arduous at first, so in earnest--like a child with a new and engrossing plaything for a day or two, and then, I suppose, she showed her new toy to Bob, and he took it away from her. Anyway, she put it by. It seemed rather a shame to me. The new would have worn off after a while. "And after all, Will," I maintained to my husband, "Robert Jennings is terribly old-school, sweet and chivalrous as can be toward women, but he can't treat Ruth in the way he does that helpless little miniature of a mother of his. He simply lives to protect her from anything practical or disagreeable. She adores it, but Ruth's a different proposition. The trouble with Robert is, he's about ten years behind the times." "And Ruth," commented Will, "is about ten years ahead of the times."