"It means that you know as well as I do, Ruth, that it isn't pleasant for me to meet Lord Manister."
"Was there something between you in Melbourne?" asked Ruth. "I must say that nobody would have thought so from seeing you together last night. And—and how was I to think so, when you have never told me anything about it?"
Christina laughed bitterly.
"When you have made a fool of yourself you don't go out of your way to talk about it, even to your own people. It is kind of you to pretend to know nothing about it—I am sure you mean it kindly; but I'm still surer that you have been told all there was to tell concerning Lord Manister and me. I don't mean by Herbert. He's close. But the mother must have written and told you something; it was only natural that she should do so."
"She did tell me a little. Herbert has told me nothing. I tried to pump him,—I think you can't wonder at that,—but he refused to speak a word on the subject. He says he hates it."
"He hates Lord Manister," said Christina, smiling. "It came round to him once that Lord Manister had called him a larrikin, and he has never forgiven him. But he has been less of a larrikin ever since. And, of course, that wasn't why he was so angry with me for dancing with Lord Manister last night; he was dreadfully angry with me as we drove home; but he is a very good boy to me, and there was something in what he said."
"What made you dance with him?" Ruth said curiously.
"I was alone. I hadn't a partner. He asked me rather prettily—he always had pretty manners. You wouldn't have had me show him I cared, by snubbing him, would you?"
"No," said Ruth thoughtfully; and suddenly she slipped from the sofa, and was kneeling on the hearthrug, with her brown eyes softly searching Christina's face and her lips whispering, "Do you care, Tiny? Do you care, Tiny, dear?"
Tiny snapped her fingers as she pushed back her chair.