choice, I'm content to abide by it. But one thing I would like to ask you."
"And what's that?" she had answered.
"Don't marry too soon. Stephen tells me you'd like to marry this summer. Well, don't, my dear. Leave it until next spring, and I shall feel a lot happier."
She had smiled and told him that she would talk to Stephen about it.
"We don't want to see you go, you know," her father had said, smiling back at her.
And so the wedding had been fixed for the first week in March, and the young couple had planned to go away for their honeymoon in Italy just before Easter.
Early in the year they had found a flat in Kensington. It was the top floor of a Victorian house, in a quiet leafy road, shabby, but comfortable, with big rooms and broad windows.
It would be convenient for Stephen's journey to the city and for Ruth's office job in Ealing which she proposed to continue after marriage. They spent their evenings painting walls, choosing curtains, planning their furnishings and dreaming of the future. Ruth never for one moment had any doubts about their happiness together. She moved toward her wedding day with serenity, unmoved by the bustle of activity surrounding her. Her mother's complicated plans for the wedding breakfast, the invitations, the presents, the cake, the organist, the bell ringers, the bridesmaids, the trousseau and all the other paraphernalia of a suitable wedding left her unperturbed. All would be well, she knew. Nothing could alter the unshakeable fact that she and Stephen would be married and living together in the adorable flat before the end of March.
Looking back on that halcyon period, after the blow, Ruth became aware of numberless small things which should have warned her of Stephen's waning affections. He was a man who was accustomed to success in every undertaking. He approached his goals directly and with ease, and the long engagement was particularly frustrating to one of his impatient and ambitious caliber. Would all have been well, Ruth sometimes wondered, if they had married earlier; or, as her father had suspected, would Stephen's deflection have occurred in any case, and then had more serious consequences? It was one of those unanswerable problems which were to torture poor Ruth for many sad weeks.
But at the time only one small incident had ruffled her calm. Stephen had been offered a position in the firm which made it necessary to take charge of their office in Brazil for two or perhaps three years. He had told her this news one rainy spring evening as they sat on the floor of the empty dining room at the flat, painting the skirting board. Ruth had not even bothered to look up from her work.
"It's out of the question, of course," she had said, drawing her brush carefully along the wood.
"It's promotion, and we could do with it," Stephen had answered, so shortly that she had put down her brush and gazed at him. His cheek twitched with a tense muscle and she realized, with a sharp stabbing pain, that he had looked strained and tired for some time. She spoke gently.
"If you honestly think we should—" she had begun.
"What's there to stay for?" he had answered.
"Why, this!" she had responded, waving her hand at the new paint around them.
"Four frowsty rooms in a scruffy little backwater," he had scoffed. "'Caged in Kensington.' What a title for a domestic tragedy!"
Perplexed and hurt Ruth had tried to answer him. She had told him that if he felt like that then they would certainly go to Brazil together. She made him promise to see his doctor about the headaches that had been plaguing him. She was positive that he needed glasses. That direct, intense gaze, which fluttered so many hearts, might well be due to short sight and nothing more glamorous, but he had a great aversion to wearing spectacles and brushed away her suggestions of a visit to the oculist.
Later, he had comforted her, called himself a brute, a selfish pig, promised her that all would be well when they were married
"And what's that?" she had answered.
"Don't marry too soon. Stephen tells me you'd like to marry this summer. Well, don't, my dear. Leave it until next spring, and I shall feel a lot happier."
She had smiled and told him that she would talk to Stephen about it.
"We don't want to see you go, you know," her father had said, smiling back at her.
And so the wedding had been fixed for the first week in March, and the young couple had planned to go away for their honeymoon in Italy just before Easter.
Early in the year they had found a flat in Kensington. It was the top floor of a Victorian house, in a quiet leafy road, shabby, but comfortable, with big rooms and broad windows.
It would be convenient for Stephen's journey to the city and for Ruth's office job in Ealing which she proposed to continue after marriage. They spent their evenings painting walls, choosing curtains, planning their furnishings and dreaming of the future. Ruth never for one moment had any doubts about their happiness together. She moved toward her wedding day with serenity, unmoved by the bustle of activity surrounding her. Her mother's complicated plans for the wedding breakfast, the invitations, the presents, the cake, the organist, the bell ringers, the bridesmaids, the trousseau and all the other paraphernalia of a suitable wedding left her unperturbed. All would be well, she knew. Nothing could alter the unshakeable fact that she and Stephen would be married and living together in the adorable flat before the end of March.
Looking back on that halcyon period, after the blow, Ruth became aware of numberless small things which should have warned her of Stephen's waning affections. He was a man who was accustomed to success in every undertaking. He approached his goals directly and with ease, and the long engagement was particularly frustrating to one of his impatient and ambitious caliber. Would all have been well, Ruth sometimes wondered, if they had married earlier; or, as her father had suspected, would Stephen's deflection have occurred in any case, and then had more serious consequences? It was one of those unanswerable problems which were to torture poor Ruth for many sad weeks.
But at the time only one small incident had ruffled her calm. Stephen had been offered a position in the firm which made it necessary to take charge of their office in Brazil for two or perhaps three years. He had told her this news one rainy spring evening as they sat on the floor of the empty dining room at the flat, painting the skirting board. Ruth had not even bothered to look up from her work.
"It's out of the question, of course," she had said, drawing her brush carefully along the wood.
"It's promotion, and we could do with it," Stephen had answered, so shortly that she had put down her brush and gazed at him. His cheek twitched with a tense muscle and she realized, with a sharp stabbing pain, that he had looked strained and tired for some time. She spoke gently.
"If you honestly think we should—" she had begun.
"What's there to stay for?" he had answered.
"Why, this!" she had responded, waving her hand at the new paint around them.
"Four frowsty rooms in a scruffy little backwater," he had scoffed. "'Caged in Kensington.' What a title for a domestic tragedy!"
Perplexed and hurt Ruth had tried to answer him. She had told him that if he felt like that then they would certainly go to Brazil together. She made him promise to see his doctor about the headaches that had been plaguing him. She was positive that he needed glasses. That direct, intense gaze, which fluttered so many hearts, might well be due to short sight and nothing more glamorous, but he had a great aversion to wearing spectacles and brushed away her suggestions of a visit to the oculist.
Later, he had comforted her, called himself a brute, a selfish pig, promised her that all would be well when they were married
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