I was rude and stupid. The lantern was on the ground inside, ready. The door opened. So Ruth took another step toward her destination, which we in our vanity call destiny. He had conveyed it to her, not verbally, but by means of a letter, which seemed to her a singularly ignoble method of prohibition. There is something inconglomerate about us. He ignored her protests in order to pursue some impressive line of his own. He drew a little sigh of relief. Our ideal had fallen. In a little while—to-morrow—all these tender, beautiful emotions will pass away, and I'll become what I was yesterday, a cynical, miserly old spinster.
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