Oh dear!  Why did she always have to do everything as a case, never just as a girl.  She couldn’t even be natural as a girl.  She had to be maybe married.  She hated the ring which seemed to her a symbol of bondage to a past that was dead and yet still clutched her with cold hands.  She had a childish impulse to fling the ring out of the window where she could never—­never see it again.  If it wasn’t for the ring—­

She interrupted her own thoughts, blushing hotly again.  She knew she had meant to go on, “If it were not for the ring she could marry Larry Holiday.”  She mustn’t think about that.  She must not forget the ring, nor let Larry forget it.  She must not let him love her.  It was a terrible thing she was doing.  He was unhappy—­dreadfully unhappy and it was all her fault.  And by and by they would all see it.  Tony had seen it today, she was almost sure.  And Doctor Holiday would see it.  He saw so much it was a wonder he had not seen it long before this.  They would hate her for hurting Larry and spoiling his life.  She could not bear to have them hate her when she loved them so and they had been so kind and good to her.  She must go away.  She must.  Maybe Larry would forget her if she wasn’t always there right under his eyes.

But how could she go?  Doctor Philip would think it queer and ungrateful of her after she had promised to stay.  How could she desert him and the children and dear Granny?  And if she went what could she do?  What use was she anyway but to be a trouble and a burden to everybody?  It would have been better, much better, if Larry had left her to die in the wreck.

Why didn’t Geoffrey Annersley come and get her, if there was a Geoffrey Annersley?  She knew she would hate him, but she wished he would come for all that.  Anything was better than making Larry suffer, making all the Holidays suffer through him.  Oh why hadn’t she died, why hadn’t she?

But in her heart Ruth knew she did not want to die.  She wanted to live.  She wanted life and love and happiness and Larry Holiday.

And then Tony stood on the threshold, smiling friendly encouragement.

“Ready, hon?  Oh, you look sweet!  That blue is lovely for you.  It never suited me at all.  Blue is angel color and I have too much—­well, of the other thing in my composition to wear it.  Come on.  The boys have been whistling impatience for half an hour and I don’t want to scare Larry out of going.  It is the first function he has condescended to attend in a blue moon.”

On the porch Ted and Larry waited, two tall, sturdy, well-groomed, fine-looking youths, bearing the indefinable stamp of good birth and breeding, the inheritance of a long line of clean strong men and gentle women—­the kind of thing not forged in one generation but in many.

They both rose as the girls appeared.  Larry crossed over to Ruth.  His quick gaze took in her nervousness and trouble of mind.

“Are you all right, Ruth?  You mustn’t let us bully you into going if you really don’t want to.”