Once a well-meaning but stupid friend had suggested the possibility of marrying again, and Ruth had smiled—a sad little smile. Also perhaps it was just a little tolerant: the smile of a parent whose child had asked some particularly foolish question.
"My dear," said Ruth, "I don't think you quite understand. There'll never be anybody in my life but Jimmy. How could there be?"
It was her brother who first dragged her out to a theatre.
"My dear girl," he said, "you can't go on burying yourself like this. Come to a show; it'll do you all the good in the world."
And Ruth, because he was home on leave, just thought it was a shame not to give him as good a time as possible; and so, just to please him, she went.
She looked her best in black—and her brother's "By Jove, old bean—you look topping!" as she came into the room before starting, sounded very pleasantly in her ears. Of course it didn't much matter what she looked like—now: except that Jimmy had always been very particular. He wouldn't like her not to look smart.
It was the second act that made her roar with laughter, and she was so engrossed in the play that she failed to notice her brother glancing at her once or twice with a quiet smile of satisfaction. In fact, during the second act she quite forgot, and it was only as she stood up to go that it all came back to her mind.
"Good show, wasn't it?" said her brother.
She smiled a little sadly. "I suppose so," she answered. "Somehow one doesn't care very much in these days...." She sighed. "But anyway, you liked it, old man, and that's all that matters."
And her brother, who seemed on the point of saying something, changed his mind and remained silent.