By and by, as he sat writing in his study, he would have unsaid the taunt, and resolved that he would talk rationally with her of his dilemma and of the course he was prepared to take; but no opportunity befell that evening, and on the morrow, the last day left him but one, he breakfasted alone. Partly with the intention of speaking to her, partly for freedom from the button-holing of the grillroom where he usually lunched, he left the executive chamber shortly before one o'clock and set out on foot for his home. As he turned from the capitol park into his own street, Mrs. Van Dam's carriage halted abruptly at the curb, and the old lady beckoned him. "I'll not ask you to get in," she said, "for I'm sure you need the walk, but I've news to tell you of a friend of ours. Ruth Graves's husband died in Los Angeles yesterday after an operation for appendicitis." Time had softened the rougher memories of his brief rivalry with the dead man, and the circumstance that each had in some degree given distinction to their common birthplace threw Bernard Graves into a light which made his early taking off mildly pathetic, but in this moment Shelby's mind could compass only the one great fact--Ruth was free! Canal, governorship, presidency forgotten, he stared into the muddy street as the carriage whipped away, till a knot of school children gathered at his heels with round eyes centred on the cobbles which apparently engrossed him. Shelby recalled himself, and hurried on to his own door. "I shall lunch at home to-day," he said to a servant in the hall. "Please tell my wife." The man handed him a sealed note explaining:-- "Mrs. Shelby went out about an hour ago. She asked me to give you this." Shelby carried the note to his room before he opened it. "I can't keep my promise," it ran. "I saw him to-day. He wants me. Good-by." CHAPTER VIII He, no less than Ruth, was free! There was no dissociating the two facts. They shouted their message together. He was rid of his incubus--why mince the word now!--rid of her gadfly vulgarity, her shallow emotions, her pinch-beck ideals, her hideous selfishness. By her own rash act she had freed him to marry the woman he loved with all his rugged strength--the woman who that memorable September day had proved loved him. What was the transient chatter of the world beside this verity! What might he not achieve in the new life! What station could he not now find confidence to fill! A knock distracted, without wholly rousing him. Milicent entered. "I hear you're to lunch at home, father," she said. "The gong has sounded twice." He stared vacantly into her young eyes; her very existence had been blotted from his recollection. "Aren't you well?" She came to him. "I shall be glad when the Legislature stops worrying you and goes home." He crushed his wife's note into a pocket.