Masten came in an hour later. Ruth was in a chair in the sitting-room, looking very white. Aunt Martha was standing beside her.
“Why, what has happened?” Masten took a few steps and stood in front of her, looking down at her.
“Aunty will tell you.” Ruth hid her face in her hands and cried softly.
Aunt Martha led the way into the kitchen, Masten following. Before he reached the door he looked back at Ruth, and a slight smile, almost a sneer, crossed his face. But when he turned to Aunt Martha, in the kitchen, his eyes were alight with well simulated curiosity.
“Well?” he said, questioningly.
“It is most outrageous,” began Aunt Martha, her voice trembling. “That man, Pickett, came upon Ruth in the stable and abused her shamefully. He actually kissed her—three or four times—and—Why, Mr. Masten, the prints of his fingers are on her wrists!”
Ruth, in the sitting-room, waited, almost in dread, for the explosion that she knew would follow Aunt Martha’s words.
None came, and Ruth sank back in her chair, not knowing whether she was relieved or disappointed. There was a long silence, during which Masten cleared his throat three times. And then came Aunt Martha’s voice, filled with mingled wonder and impatience:
“Aren’t you going to do something Mr. Masten? Such a thing ought not to go unpunished.”
“Thunder!” he said fretfully, “what on earth can I do? You don’t expect me to go out and fight that man, Pickett. He’d kill me!”