VII
Miss Adgate preceded her companion.
“Uncle,” she boldly proclaimed, “I've brought a friend of yours to luncheon.” General Adgate looked up from his book. “Why—Rutherford! glad to see you,” he said, shaking hands none too cordially. “So,” he smiled as he pushed a chair forward for Ruth, “my niece waylaid you, did she?”
“No,” Ruth told him. “I was waylaid by a serpent in our woods. Mr. Rutherford happened by at the right moment to rescue me.” Then Ruth went to the ancient gilt mirror above the fireplace and withdrew the pins from her hat and rang for Paolina.
“So you saved the lady's life,” General Adgate chuckled. “Well done, Rutherford, my son—a plausible opening to the story to please the matter-of-fact public. As though the public were matter-of-fact!—Nothing is really improbable enough for the public, provided life's in the telling. We're ready to swallow the most unconscionable lies! But though you've lost no time in making the opening ordinary, Rutherford, we shall see what may be done to reward you.”
“Oh,” objected Rutherford, with happy laughter,—“you of all men should know it—the service of Beauty brings its own reward to those lucky enough to serve it?”
“Lunch is served, Miss,” announced Martha patly, putting her head in at the door.
“Oh, a plate, please, Martha, for this gentleman,” said Ruth.
A shade (was it a look of displeasure?) crept into Martha's face; the reply came meekly. “Yes, Miss,” she answered—and disappeared.
Miss Adgate threw a gay glance at Rutherford, he returned it with one he meant to make eloquent of his admiration. But Ruth was saying, in that ravishing voice of hers: “Shall we go in?” She swept by him into the low-ceilinged, white-panelled dining-room with an air of dignity in her slim, young figure which Rutherford thought suited it to perfection.