And let us go on with our evening. Ruth loved him. The commissionaire stood there, tall and imperturbable. Living, he knew that he would never send that letter. She saw her life before her robbed of all generous illusions, the wrappered life unwrappered forever, vistas of dull responses, crises of makebelieve, years of exacting mutual disregard in a misty garden of fine sentiments. All his dreams shattered in an instant. Melusine whirled. Some shadow of reserve seemed to have crept up between them. She was aware of people—her aunt, her father, her fellow-students, friends, and neighbors— moving about outside this glowing secret, very much as an actor is aware of the dim audience beyond the barrier of the footlights.
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