"He won't come back…. I saw it in his eyes."
"Who won't come back, dear?"
"Bonbright." Ruth drew a shuddering breath. Then haltingly, whimperingly, sobs interrupting, she talked. She could not tell it fast enough. It must be told, her mind must be relieved, and the story, pent up so long within her, rushed forth in a flood of despairing, self-accusing words. It came in snatches, fragments, as high lights of suffering flashed upon her mind. She did not start at the beginning logically and carry through—but the thing as a whole was there. Hilda had only to sort it and reassemble it to get the pitiful tale complete.
"You—you don't mean you married Bonbright like some of those Russian nihilist persons one hears about—just to use him and your position—for some socialist or anarchist thing? You're not serious, Ruth?… Such things aren't."
"I—I'd do THAT again," she said. "It was right—to do that—for the good of all those men…. It's not that—but the rest—not keeping to my bargain—and—Dulac. I would have—gone with him."
Hilda shook her head. "Not farther than the door," she said. "You couldn't—not after Bonbright has been such—such an idiotic angel about you."
"I would have—THEN."
"But you wouldn't now?"
"I—I can't bear to THINK of him…."
"Um!…" Hilda's expressive syllable was very like her father's. It was her way of saying, "I see, and I'll bet you don't see, and I'm not surprised particularly, but you'll be surprised when you find it out." It said all that—to Hilda's satisfaction.