"I was sure you would. Philip spoke your name last; he said you could see the man he tried to be, even in the man he was."
"Yes! yes, a thousand times more than he ever hoped. What was the poor crumbling shell compared to the splendid soul that he builded through those horrible years? Years when he could not quite free himself from the craven thing that was his curse—the fear! fear! fear!"
The two were silent for a moment while the red glow showed them haggard and worn. Then it was the woman who spoke.
"Ralph—do you think a woman can love—really love—two men?"
He stared at her.
"Perhaps," he faltered; "perhaps, but in different ways."
"I loved them both. When—when I find John—if he wants me—if he asks me—I shall marry him." She shuddered.
"Ruth!"
"Yes; I think Philip would give him even—me. His renunciation was wide and deep. He, the great, strong soul of him, went on—alone. It had no real part with his weakness and all that was bound up in his weakness—he wanted John to have everything of which he had deprived him. You can understand, can you not? At the last, when fear had no further power, he was almost mad in his abandon of recompense.
"He did not tell me this, that awful night when he told me—the rest; but I felt it. I saw that I, with all else that had meant anything to him, was included in his shame; and the new nature that had evolved from the agony and remorse—had nothing to do with us any more!"