“Miss Mayfield is well, but she is not coming down just now. She wants to be alone, but she sent me—”
It was impossible to tell him. Much as she hated the man she did not quite have the courage to deliver Gloria’s message without preliminaries.
“Yes? Yes?—speak, tell me; she is ill, is it not?”
There was a nervous apprehension in his voice and manner that made Ruth suspect that the news would not be altogether unexpected.
“No; she is not ill. As I said she is quite well, but she asked me to say—to tell you—it’s awfully hard to say it, but she asked me to tell you that she cannot marry you and that it would be very tactful if you would go back to New York at once without trying to see her.”
It was blunderingly done, but she could think of no other way to tell it. Unwelcome truths are only made more ugly by any effort to soften their harshness.
His cigarette dropped unnoticed upon the rug and his jaw dropped in a stupid way that made him look like a great pig. One part of Ruth’s brain was really sorry for him, for he had doubtless been fond of Gloria in his own way; the other half of her brain wanted to laugh, but she only stood with bent head, as if, having struck him she was waiting for his retaliation. It came with a rush as soon as he had assimilated the full meaning of her words:
“I do not believe—it is a plot—she would not send a message such as that to me—it is the work of that Riordan— He is jealous—. I will sue her for breach of promise—one can do that, is it not?”
“Women sometimes sue men for breach of promise,” said Ruth, who was quite calm now, “but men seldom sue women; besides, you can’t sue Gloria, because she has no money.”
“No money?” He laughed and lit another cigarette to give point to his carelessness and unbelief.