“Ah-ha!” said the woman coolly. “Then you are merely smart, after all.”
“No!” said Ruth, suddenly losing her vexation, for this person she decided was not quite responsible. “No. For, if I were really smart, I should have been so far behind the lines that the Hun would never have found me.”
The black-eyed woman seemed to feel Ruth’s implied scorn after all.
“Oh!” she said, resetting her eyeglasses with both hands, “I have been in Paris all through the war.”
“Oh, then you’d heard about it?” Ruth intimated. “Well!”
“I certainly know all about the war,” said the woman shortly.
The girl of the Red Mill seldom felt antagonism toward people—even unpleasant people. But there was something about this woman that she found very annoying. She turned her bandaged shoulder to her, and gave her attention to the Red Cross officer.
Strangely enough, the queer-looking woman continued to put herself in Ruth’s way. After dinner she sought her out in a corner of the saloon where Ruth was listening to the music. The windows of the saloon were shaded so that no light could get out; but it was quite cozy and cheerful therein.
“You are Miss Fielding, I see by the purser’s list,” said the curious person, staring at Ruth through her glasses.
“I have not the pleasure of knowing you,” returned the girl of the Red Mill. “Can I do anything for you?”