"It is warm,—very," she says, calmly, but indifferently.
"'Ot I call it,—werry 'ot," returns he, making his quotation as genially as though she understands it, and, plucking a little rose-bud from a tree near him, proceeds to adorn his coat with it.
"It seems a long time since I have seen you," he goes on, presently; and, as he speaks, his eyes again seek hers. Something in her face touches some chord in his careless kindly nature.
"How pale you are!" he says, abruptly.
"Am I? The heat, no doubt,"—with a faint smile.
"But thin, too, are you not? And—and—" he pauses. "Anything wrong with you, Ruth?"
"Wrong? No! How should there be?" retorts she, in a curious tone, in which fear and annoyance fight for mastery. Then the storm dies away, and the startled look fades from her pretty face.
"Why should you think me unhappy because I am a little pale?" she asks, sullenly.
Branscombe looks surprised.
"You altogether mistake me," he says, gently. "I never associated you in my mind with unhappiness. I merely meant, had you a headache, or any other of those small ills that female flesh is heir to? I beg your pardon, I'm sure, if I have offended you."