Later we sat down together on the sofa. She looked around curiously.
"What sort of a place is this, anyhow?" she asked in old, characteristic frankness. "I didn't know what I was getting into. It seems sort of—I don't know—not quite—not quite—I feel as if I might be shut up in here and not let out."
I laughed. Later I took her up to our showrooms on the top floor.
"Good heavens, do you sell people things, Ruth?" she demanded.
"Of course I do," I assured her.
"Just the same as over a counter almost?"
"Yes—not much difference."
"But don't you feel—oh, dear—that seems so queer—what is your social position?"
"Oh, I don't know. I've cut loose from all that."
"I know, but still you've got to think about the future. For instance, how would we feel if Malcolm wrote he was going to marry a clerk—or somebody like that—or a manicurist?"