She had set
her down as a delightful child, an undeveloped, feather-brained little
thing, pleasant to spend an afternoon with, but not to be taken
seriously by any one as magnificent and superior as Ruth Winfield. And
what manner of a man must Bailey be, Bailey whom she had always looked
on as a dear, but as quite a joke, something to be chaffed and made to
look foolish, if he was capable of inspiring love like this?
A wave of humility swept over her. The pygmies of her world were
springing up as giants, dwarfing her. The pinnacle of superiority on
which she had stood so long was crumbling into dust.
She was finding herself. She winced again as the thought stabbed her
that she was finding herself too late.
They reached the house in silence, each occupied with her own thoughts.
The defiant look had died out of Sybil's face and she was once more a
child, crying because unknown forces had hurt it. But Ruth was not
looking at her now.
She was too busy examining this new world into which she had been
abruptly cast, this world where dolls had souls and jokes lost their
point.
At the cottage good news awaited them. The crisis was past. Bailey was
definitely out of danger. He was still asleep, and sleeping easily. It
had just been an ordinary breakdown, due to worrying and overwork, said
the doctor, the bigger of the doctors, the one who had been summoned
from New York.
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