Ruth was bathing her eyes, her body still quivering a little. "Yes, I know," she spluttered, her face in the water; "he is that way when—after we've quarrelled."
"I didn't know you and Deane ever did quarrel," ventured Mrs. Holland. "When you do, I'll warrant it's your fault." She added, significantly: "Deane's mighty good to you, Ruth." She had said several things like that of late.
"Oh, he's good enough," murmured Ruth from the folds of the towel.
"Now, powder up a little, dear. There! And now just take it a little easy. Why, it's not a hit like you to be so——touchy."
She followed Ruth downstairs. "Got that letter?" the grandfather called out from his room.
"I'll send Ted with it, father," Mrs. Holland said hastily, seeing Ruth's face.
A sudden surge of love for her mother almost swept away Ruth's self-command. It was wonderful that some one wanted to help her. It made her want to cry.
Her mother went with her to the porch. "You look so nice," she said soothingly. "Have a good time, dearie."
Ruth waved her hand without turning her face to her mother.
Tears were right there close all through that evening. The strain within was so great—(what was she going to do about Deane?)—that there was that impulse to cry at the slightest friendliness. She was flushed and tired when she reached Edith's, and Mrs. Lawrence herself went out and got her a glass of water—a fan, drew up a comfortable chair. The whole house seemed so kindly, so favoring. Contrasted with her secret turmoil the reposefulness, friendliness of the place was so beautiful to her that taut emotions were ready to give. Yet all the while there was that inner distress about how to get away, what to say. The affectionate kindness of her friends, the appeal of their well-ordered lives as something in which to rest, simply had no reach into the thing that dominated her.