Part 11

Miss Thorne did not know, but she was much interested.

“Carlton advised me to come up here,” resumed Winfield. “He said you were here, and that you were going back in the Fall. I'm sorry I've lost his letter.”

“What was in it?” inquired Ruth, with a touch of sarcasm. “You read it, didn't you?”

“Of course I read it--that is, I tried to. The thing looked like a prescription, but, as nearly as I could make it out, it was principally a description of the desolation in the office since you left it. At the end there was a line or two commending me to your tender mercies, and here I am.”

“Commending yourself.”

“Now what in the dickens have I done?” thought Winfield. “That's it exactly, Miss Thorne. I've lost my reference, and I'm doing my best to create a good impression without it. I thought that as long as we were going to be on the same paper, and were both exiles--”

He paused, and she finished the sentence for him: “that you'd come to see me. How long have you been in town?”

“'In town' is good,” he said. “I arrived in this desolate, God-forsaken spot just ten days ago. Until now I've hunted and fished every day, but I didn't get anything but a cold. It was very good, of its kind--I couldn't speak above a whisper for three days.”

She had already recognised him as the young man she saw standing in the road the day she went to Miss Ainslie's, and mentally asked his pardon for thinking he was a book-agent. He might become a pleasant acquaintance, for he was tall, clean shaven, and well built. His hands were white and shapely and he was well groomed, though not in the least foppish. The troublesome eyes were dark brown, sheltered by a pair of tinted glasses. His face was very expressive, responding readily to every change of mood.

They talked “shop” for a time, discovering many mutual friends, and Ruth liked him. He spoke easily, though hurriedly, and appeared to be somewhat cynical, but she rightly attributed it to restlessness like her own.

“What are you going to do on The Tribune?” she asked.

“Anything,” he answered, with an indefinable shrug. “'Theirs not to reason why, theirs but to do and die.' What are you going to do?”

“The same,” replied Ruth. “'Society,' 'Mother's Corner,' 'Under the Evening Lamp,' and 'In the Kitchen with Aunt Jenny.'”

He laughed infectiously. “I wish Carlton could hear you say that.”

“I don't,” returned Ruth, colouring faintly.

“Why; are you afraid of him?”

“Certainly I am. If he speaks to me, I'm instantly stiff with terror.”

“Oh, he isn't so bad,” said Winfield, reassuringly, “He's naturally abrupt, that's all; and I'll venture he doesn't suspect that he has any influence over you. I'd never fancy that you were afraid of anybody or anything on earth.”

“I'm not afraid of anything else,” she answered, “except burglars and green worms.”

“Carlton would enjoy the classification--really, Miss Thorne, somebody should tell him, don't you think? So much innocent pleasure doesn't often come into the day of a busy man.”

For a moment Ruth was angry, and then, all at once, she knew Winfield as if he had always been her friend. Conventionality, years, and the veneer of society were lightly laid upon one who would always be a boy. Some men are old at twenty, but Winfield would be young at seventy.

“You can tell him if you want to,” Ruth rejoined, calmly. “He'll be so pleased that he'll double your salary on the spot.”

“And you?” he asked, his eyes twinkling with fun.

“I'll be pensioned, of course.”

“You're all right,” he returned, “but I guess I won't tell him. Riches lead to temptation, and if I'm going to be on The Tribune I'd hate to have you pensioned.”

Hepsey appeared to have a great deal of employment in the dining-room, and was very quiet about it, with long pauses between her leisurely movements. Winfield did not seem to notice it, but it jarred upon Ruth, and she was relieved when he said he must go.

“You'll come again, won't you?” she asked.

“I will, indeed.”