"What ails you now? You're enough to drive a body wild. What you cryin'about? Say!"
"I—I love him… That's why I hid away—because I—loved him—and—and his father died. That was it. I remember now. I couldn't bear it…"
"Was it him or his father you was in love with?" asked Mrs. Moody, acidly.
"I—hated his father… But when he died I couldn't tell HIM—I loved him… He wouldn't have believed me."
"Say," said Mrs. Moody, suddenly awakening to the possibilities of
Ruth's mood, "who was your husband, anyhow?"
Ruth shook her head. "I—can't tell you… You'd tell him… He mustn't find me—because I—couldn't bear it."
The mercenary came to the door. "Young woman at the door wants to see you," she said.
"Always somebody. Always trottin' up and down stairs. Seems like a body never gits a chance to rest her bones…. I'm comin'. Say I'll be right downstairs."
In the parlor Mrs. Moody found a young woman of a world with which boarding houses have little acquaintance. She glanced through the window, and saw beside the curb a big car with a liveried chauffeur. "I vum!" she said to herself.
"I'm Mrs. Moody, miss," she said. "What's wanted?"