"Mrs. Shelby went out about an hour ago. She asked me to give you this."
Shelby carried the note to his room before he opened it.
"I can't keep my promise," it ran. "I saw him to-day. He wants me.
Good-by."
CHAPTER VIII
He, no less than Ruth, was free! There was no dissociating the two facts. They shouted their message together. He was rid of his incubus—why mince the word now!—rid of her gadfly vulgarity, her shallow emotions, her pinch-beck ideals, her hideous selfishness. By her own rash act she had freed him to marry the woman he loved with all his rugged strength—the woman who that memorable September day had proved loved him. What was the transient chatter of the world beside this verity! What might he not achieve in the new life! What station could he not now find confidence to fill!
A knock distracted, without wholly rousing him. Milicent entered.
"I hear you're to lunch at home, father," she said. "The gong has sounded twice."
He stared vacantly into her young eyes; her very existence had been blotted from his recollection.
"Aren't you well?" She came to him. "I shall be glad when the
Legislature stops worrying you and goes home."
He crushed his wife's note into a pocket.