For an hour I sat and grated my own
self against Alfred's letter that had come in the morning. I realized
that I would just have to come to some sort of decision about what I was
going to do, for he wrote that he was to sail in a day or two, and ships
do travel so fast these days.
I love him and always have, of that I am sure. He offers me the most
wonderful life in the world and no woman could help being proud to
accept it. I am lonely, more lonely than I was even willing to confess
to Doctor John. I can't go on living this way any longer. Ruth Chester
has made me see that if I want Alfred it will be now or never
and--quick. I know now that she loves him, and she ought to have her
show if I don't want him. The way she idolizes and idealizes him is a
marvel of womanly stupidity.
Some women like to collect men's hearts and hide them away from other
women on cold storage and the helpless things can't help themselves.
I have contempt for that sort of butcher, and I love Ruth!
It's my duty to look the matter in the face before I look in
Alfred's--and _decide_. If not Alfred, what then?
First--no husband. That's out of the question! I'm not strong-minded
enough to crank my own motor-car and study woman's suffrage.
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