“I was so worried, my precious,” she cried, drawing his cheek down to her lips. “You stayed so long. Is it very dreadful?”
Jack put his arm around her, led her into the sitting-room and shut the door. Then the two settled beside each other on the sofa.
“Pretty bad,—my darling—” Jack answered at last,—“very bad, really.”
“Has he been drinking?”
“Worse,—he has been dabbling in Wall Street and may lose every cent he has.”
Ruth leaned her head on her hand: “I was afraid it was something awful from the way Corinne spoke. Oh, poor dear,—I'm so sorry! Does she know now?”
“She knows he's in trouble, but she doesn't know how bad it is. I begged him to tell her, but he wouldn't promise. He's afraid of hurting her—afraid to trust her, I think, with his sufferings. He's making an awful mistake, but I could not move him. He might listen to you if you tried.”
“But he must tell her, Jack,” Ruth cried in an indignant tone. “It is not fair to her; it is not fair to any woman,—and it is not kind. Corinne is not a child any longer;—she's a grown woman, and a mother. How can she help him unless she knows? Jack, dear, look into my eyes;” her face was raised to his;—“Promise me, my darling, that no matter what happens to you you'll tell me first.”
And Jack promised.