Then I told her that if the pressure became unbearable she must come to me. She promised. The Snow Lady found us sitting there together; we made room for her beside us. Shortly after her coming Ruthita made an excuse to vanish. I turned to the Snow Lady abruptly. “She’s not going to marry Halloway.” She raised her brows, laughing with her eyes. “Why not? Why so positive?” “Because it’s an arranged marriage.” “Mine with her father was arranged; it was very happy.” Somehow I knew she was not serious. “You don’t want it?” I challenged. “No, I don’t want it; but Ruthita’s growing older. No one else has asked for her. It would be a shame if she became an old maid.” “She won’t.” “She won’t, if you say so,” said the Snow Lady. During breakfast my father was silent. He seemed conscious of a conspiracy against him. When the meal was ended, he retired to his study, where he shut himself up, working morosely. I sought opportunities to tell the Snow Lady what I had come to say, but I could never find an opening to introduce the name of Vi. Whenever we were alone together she insisted on discussing Ruthita’s future, stating and re-stating the reasons for and against the proposed match. The atmosphere was never sympathetic for the broaching of my own perplexities. Gradually I came to see that I must make my decision unaided; then I knew that I should decide in only one way. I engaged a passage to Boston provisionally, telling myself that it could be canceled. That I think was the turning-point, though I still pretended to hesitate. The day before the boat sailed, my father announced at table, avoiding my eyes, that Lord Halloway had written that he would call next day. I went to my bedroom and commenced to pack. Ruthita followed. “You’re going?” “Yes.” “Because he’s coming?” “Partly.” Her eyes were blinded with tears; she sank against the wall in a fit of sobbing. “Oh, I wish you could take me--I wish you could take me!” she cried. I comforted her, telling her to be brave, reminding her of her promise to come to me if they used pressure. She dabbed her eyes. “You and I’ve always stood together, little sister; you mustn’t be afraid,” I told her. I carried my bags downstairs into the hall. The Snow Lady met me. “What’s this? You’re going?” Her voice reflected dismay and bewilderment. “Yes, going.” “But not for long! You’ll be back shortly?” “That depends.” I entered my father’s study. He looked up from his writing. “I’m going away.” He held my hand in silence a moment; his throat was working; he would not look me in the eyes. “Won’t you stay?” he asked hoarsely. I shook my head. “Good-by,” he muttered. “Don’t judge us harshly. Come back again.”