"Third Floor," the other answered, curt as a blow.
When the lift stopped, Ernie went along the corridor to deliver a note to Madame in her room.
"Thank-you, Caspar," she said. "Good-night."
She had always felt a kindness for this soft-spoken son of the people, and the fact that he was reported to be of gentle birth had interested her.
As he was going back to the lift he met Ruth, still in her hat, coming along the corridor, bearing a tray.
She had the merry, mischievous air of a girl just back from a Sunday school treat, and still brimming with the laughter of primroses and April woods. His heart leapt up in joy and thankfulness as he beheld her.
She gave him the old gay look of affectionate intimacy, which she had withheld from him for weeks past.
"Good-night, Ernie," she said as she passed him, in a voice so low that but for its deep ringing quality he might almost have missed it.
He half hesitated.
"Good-night, Ruth," he answered, and as he disappeared down the shaft of the lift saw her, glowing with health and happiness, enter the Captain's room with her tray.