"You, commonplace?" repeated Ruth; "why, there's nobody like you!"
They stood at the door a few moments, talking aimlessly, but Ruth was
watching Miss Ainslie's face, as the sunset light lay caressingly upon
it. "I've had a lovely time," she said, taking another step toward the
gate.
"So have I--you'll come again, won't you?" The sweet voice was pleading
now, and Ruth answered it in her inmost soul. Impulsively, she came
back, threw her arms around Miss Ainslie's neck, and kissed her. "I love
you," she said, "don't you know I do?"
The quick tears filled Miss Ainslie's eyes and she smiled through the
mist. "Thank you, deary," she whispered, "it's a long time since any one
has kissed me--a long time!"
Ruth turned back at the gate, to wave her hand, and even at that
distance, saw that Miss Ainslie was very pale.
Winfield was waiting for her, just outside the hedge, but his presence
jarred upon her strangely, and her salutation was not cordial.
"Is the lady a friend of yours?" he inquired, indifferently.
"She is," returned Ruth; "I don't go to see my enemies--do you?"
"I don't know whether I do or not," he said, looking at her
significantly.
Her colour rose, but she replied, sharply: "For the sake of peace, let
us assume that you do not."
"Miss Thorne," he began, as they climbed the hill, "I don't see why you
don't apply something cooling to your feverish temper. You have to live
with yourself all the time, you know, and, occasionally, it must be
very difficult. A rag, now, wet in cold water, and tied around your
neck--have you ever tried that? It's said to be very good."
"I have one on now," she answered, with apparent seriousness, "only you
can't see it under my ribbon. It's getting dry and I think I'd better
hurry home to wet it again, don't you?"
Winfield laughed joyously. "You'll do," he said.
Before they were half up the hill, they were on good terms again. "I
don't want to go home, do you?" he asked.
"Home? I have no home--I'm only a poor working girl."
"Oh, what would this be with music! I can see it now! Ladies and
gentlemen, with your kind permission, I will endeavour to give you a
little song of my own composition, entitled:'Why Has the Working Girl No
Home!'"
"You haven't my permission, and you're a wretch."
"I am," he admitted, cheerfully, "moreover, I'm a worm in the dust."
"I don't like worms."
"Then you'll have to learn."
Ruth resented his calm assumption of mastery. "You're dreadfully young,"
she said; "do you think you'll ever grow up?"
"Huh!" returned Winfield, boyishly, "I'm most thirty."
"Really? I shouldn't have thought you were of age."