"And—your husband? Is he here too?"
Ruth flung a pebble.
"I believe he's addressing a woman suffrage convention in Chicago to-day." She gave him a lazy glance. "And Mrs. Shelby—is she here?"
"She's in Saratoga, I believe."
"Belief again? We really ought to read the papers."
He tried to search her face, but the pebble-throwing prevented. The Widow Weatherwax had expatiated on the topic of Mrs. Bernard Graves's unhappiness, with tedious variations on the saw about marrying in haste to repent at leisure. He wondered—he scarce knew what. She drew him with all the old attraction, but an elusive something had vanished. He guessed that it was the essence of youth, though the form lingered.
"Are you happy, Ruth?" he asked abruptly.
She looked him in the eyes, and laughed.
"That reminds me of your unofficial self," she said. "You never could invent small talk for the feminine mind."
"You were never the kind of woman who wanted it."