The truth had been a long time in coming home to Kirk, but it had
reached him at last. Ever since his return he had clung to the belief
that it was a genuine conviction of its merits that had led Ruth to
support her aunt's scheme for Bill's welfare. He himself had always
looked on the exaggerated precautions for the maintenance of the
latter's health as ridiculous and unnecessary; but he had acquiesced in
them because he thought that Ruth sincerely believed them
indispensable.
After all, he had not been there when Bill so nearly died, and he could
understand that the shock of that episode might have distorted the
judgment even of a woman so well balanced as Ruth. He was quite ready
to be loyal to her in the matter, however distasteful it might be to
him.
But now he saw the truth. A succession of tiny incidents had brought
light to him. Ruth might or might not be to some extent genuine in her
belief in the new system, but her chief motive for giving it her
support was something quite different. He had tried not to admit to
himself, but he could do so no longer. Ruth allowed Mrs. Porter to have
her way because it suited her to do so; because, with Mrs. Porter on
the premises, she had more leisure in which to amuse herself; because,
to put it in a word, the child had begun to bore her.
Everything pointed to that. In the old days it had been her chief
pleasure to be with the boy. Their walks in the park had been a daily
ceremony with which nothing had been allowed to interfere. But now she
always had some excuse for keeping away from him.
Her visits to the nursery, when she did go there, were brief and
perfunctory. And the mischief of it was that she always presented such
admirable reasons for abstaining from Bill's society, when it was
suggested to her that she should go to him, that it was impossible to
bring her out into the open and settle the matter once and for all.
Patience was one of the virtues which set off the defects in Kirk's
character; but he did not feel very patient now as he sat and watched
Bill playing on the floor.
'Well, Bill, old man, what do you make of it all?' he said at last.
The child looked up and fixed him with unwinking eyes. Kirk winced.
They were so exactly Ruth's eyes. That wide-open expression when
somebody, speaking suddenly to her, interrupted a train of thought, was
one of her hundred minor charms.
Bill had reproduced it to the life. He stared for a moment; then, as if
there had been some telepathy between them, said: 'I want mummy.'
Kirk laughed bitterly.
'You aren't the only one. I want mummy, too.'
'Where is mummy?'
'I couldn't tell you exactly. At a luncheon-party somewhere.'
'What's luncheon-party?'
'A sort of entertainment where everybody eats too much and talks all
the time without ever saying a thing that's worth hearing.'
Bill considered this gravely.
'Why?'
