He looked at her in surprise. "Why, yes, Ruth, they certainly were—different."
Silence fell between them, separately dwelling upon that.
"Just how—different?" Ruth asked, for it seemed he was not going on.
"Why—mother stopped going out, and of course that made her all different. You know what a lot those parties and doings meant to mother."
She did not at once speak, her face working. Then: "I'm sorry," she choked. "Need she have done that, Ted?" she added wistfully after a moment.
He looked at her with that fine seriousness that made him seem older than he was—and finer than she had known. "Well, I don't know, Ruth; you know you don't feel very comfortable if you think people are—talking. It makes you feel sort of—out of it; as if there was something different about you."
"And father?" she urged, her voice quiet, strangely quiet. She was sitting very still, looking intently at Ted.
"Well, father rather dropped out of it, too," he went on, his voice gentle as if it would make less hard what it was saying. "He and mother just seemed to want to draw back into their shells. I think—" He stopped, then said: "I guess you really want to know, Ruth; it—it did make a big difference in father. I think it went deeper than you may have known—and maybe it's only fair to him you should know. It did make a difference; I think it made a difference even in business. Maybe that seems queer, but don't you know when a person doesn't feel right about things he doesn't get on very well with people? Father got that way. He didn't seem to want to be with people."
She did not raise her eyes at that. "Business hasn't gone very well, has it, Ted?" she asked after a moment of silence, still not looking up.
"Pretty bad. And of course that gets Cy," he added.