He moaned. He could not kiss Ruth because the acquired conscience—struggling on its way to limbo—made the idea repellant. He knew that at this moment Ruth lay upon her bed in torment, for she was by nature tender; and the reaction of her scathing words, no matter how justifiable, would be putting scars on her soul. “I believe,” he said slowly, “that I shall do best to throw myself upon your consideration and tell you the truth. I should never have noticed the miniature at all, if it hadn't been for him. She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. He bent to her hand, and she slipped off the ring and gave it to him to examine.
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