Part 7 (1/2)

”Yes, grandfather,” she called from the head of the stairs in a peculiarly quiet voice. ”I see. It's all right.”

Then she could not find the things she wanted to put on. There was a b.u.t.ton off her dress and her thread broke in sewing it. She was holding herself very tight when her mother came leisurely into the room and stood there commenting on the way Ruth's hair was done, on the untidiness of her dressing-table, mildly reproving her for a growing carelessness. Then she wandered along about something Ruth was to tell Edith's mother. Ruth, her trembling fingers tangling her thread, was thinking that she was always to tell somebody something somebody else had said, take something from one person to another. The way people were all held together in trivial things, that thin, seemingly purposeless web lightly holding them together was eternally throwing threads around her, keeping her from the one thing that counted.

”There!” escaped from her at last, breaking the thread and throwing the dress over her head. Her mother sauntered over to fasten it for her, pausing to note how the dress was wearing out, speaking of the new one Ruth must have soon, and who should make it. ”Oh, I'm in a _hurry_, mother!” Ruth finally cried when her mother stopped to consider how the dress would have had more style if, instead of b.u.t.toning down the back, it had fastened under that fold.

”Really, my dear,” Mrs. Holland remonstrated, jerking the dress straight with a touch of vexation, ”I must say that you are getting positively peevis.h.!.+”

As Ruth did not reply, and the mother could feel her body tightening, she went on, with a loving little pat as she fastened the dress over the hip, ”And you used to be the most sweet-tempered girl ever lived.”

Still Ruth made no answer. ”Your father was saying the other night that he was sure you couldn't be feeling well. You never used to be a bit irritable, he said, and you nearly snapped his head off when he wanted--just to save you--to drive you over to Harriett's.”

Though the dress was all fastened now, Ruth did not turn toward her mother. Mrs. Holland added gently: ”Now that wasn't reasonable, was it?”

The tear Ruth had been trying to hold back fell to the handkerchief she was selecting. No, it wouldn't seem reasonable, of course; her father had wanted to help her, and she had been cross. It was all because she couldn't tell him the truth--which was that she hadn't told him the truth, that she wasn't going to Harriett's for an hour, that she was going to do something else first. There had been a moment of actually hating her father when, in wanting to help her, he stepped in the way of a thing he knew nothing about. That, it seemed, was what happened between people when things could not be told.

Mrs. Holland, seeing that Ruth's hand was unsteady, went on, in a voice meant to soothe: ”Just take it a little easier, dear. What under the sun have you got to do but enjoy yourself? Don't get in such a flutter about it.” She sighed and murmured, from the far ground of experience: ”Wait till you have a real worry.”

Ruth was pinning on her hat. She laughed in a jerky little way and said, in a light voice that was slightly tremulous: ”I did get a little fussed, didn't I? But you see I wanted to get over to Edith's before dinner time. She wants to talk to me about her shower for Cora Albright.”

”But you have all evening to talk that over, haven't you?” calmly admonished Mrs. Holland.

”Why, of course,” Ruth answered, a little crisply, starting for the door.

”Your petticoat's showing,” her mother called to her. ”Here, I'll pin it up for you.”

”Oh, let it _go_!” cried Ruth desperately. ”I'll fix it at Edith's,” she added hurriedly.

”Ruth, are you crazy?” her mother demanded. ”Going through the streets with your petticoat showing! I guess you're in no such hurry as that.”

It was while she was pinning up the skirt that Mrs. Holland remarked: ”Oh, I very nearly forgot to tell you; Deane's going over there for you tonight.”

Then to the mother's utter bewilderment and consternation Ruth covered her face with her hands and burst into sobs.

”Why, my _dear_,” she murmured; ”why, Ruth _dear_, what _is_ the matter?”

Ruth sank down on the bed, leaning her head against the foot of it, shaking with sobs. Her mother stood over her murmuring, ”Why, my dear, what _is_ the matter?”

Ruth, trying to stop crying, began to laugh. ”I didn't know he was coming! I was so surprised. We've quarrelled!” she gulped out desperately.

”Why, he was just as natural and nice as could be over the 'phone,” said Mrs. Holland, pouring some water in the bowl that Ruth might bathe her eyes. ”Really, my dear, it seems to me you make too much of things. He wanted to come here, and when I told him you were going to be at Edith's, he said he'd go there. I'm sure he was just as nice as could be.”

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.”