“You like humbugs, don't you?”
“Some, not all.”
There was a long silence, and then Ruth moved away from him. “Tell me about everything,” she said. “Think of all the years I haven't known you!”
“There's nothing to tell, dear. Are you going to conduct an excavation into my 'past?'”
“Indeed, I'm not! The present is enough for me, and I'll attend to your future myself.”
“There's not much to be ashamed of, Ruth,” he said, soberly. “I've always had the woman I should marry in my mind—'the not impossible she,' and my ideal has kept me out of many a pitfall I wanted to go to her with clean hands and a clean heart, and I have. I'm not a saint, but I'm as clean as I could be, and live in the world at all.”
Ruth put her hand on his. “Tell me about your mother.”
A shadow crossed his face and he waited a moment before speaking. “My mother died when I was born,” he said with an effort. “I can't tell you about her, Ruth, she—she—wasn't a very good woman.”
“Forgive me, dear,” she answered with quick sympathy, “I don't want to know!”
“I didn't know about it until a few years ago,” he continued, “when some kindly disposed relatives of father's gave me full particulars. They're dead now, and I'm glad of it. She—she—drank.”