"It is the blow and the shock of the whole thing. It will be all right in
time. You will fall on your Geoffrey's neck and call him blessed when the
time comes."

"I don't believe he is coming," she announced suddenly with conviction.

Larry got up and walked over to her couch.

"What makes you say that?" he demanded.

"I don't know. It was just a feeling I had. Something inside me said
right out loud: 'He isn't coming. He isn't your husband.' Maybe it is
because I don't want him to come and don't want him to be my husband. Oh,
dear! It is all so queer and mixed up and horrid. It is awful not to be
anybody--just a ghost. I wish I'd been killed. Why didn't you leave me?
Why did you dig me out? All the others said I was dead. Why didn't you
let me _be_ dead? It would have been better."

She turned her face away and buried it in the pillow, sobbing softly,
suddenly like a child.

This was too much for Larry. He dropped on his knees beside her and put
his arms around the quivering little figure.

"Don't, Ruth," he implored. "Don't cry and don't--don't wish you were
dead. I--I can't stand it."

There was a tap at the door. Larry got to his feet in guilty haste and
went to the door of the stateroom.