"It's a strong way of putting it, I know," said Erskine reluctantly; "but really I can't think of any other. I wonder you don't realize that there are more ways of making up to a man than the dead-set method. Can't you see that a far more effective method is a little judicious snubbing and avoiding, which is coquetry? You take my word for it, that's the touch for a man like Manister, who is probably accustomed to everything but being snubbed and avoided. Then you speak of the one dance she gave him. Now I happen to know that they didn't dance it at all; they spent the time under the stars, for it was my misfortune to see them and their misfortune not to see me."
"Well?" whispered Ruth; and though she had never been so dark until now, that whisper would have drawn his lantern to her real hopes and fears.
"I only saw them for an instant: I bolted; so I may easily be wrong; but it struck me that our Tiny was making up for her snubbing and avoiding. It has since occurred to me that they must have known each other rather well in Melbourne—rather better, at any rate, than you have ever led me to suppose."
As a woman's last resource, Ruth aimed a stone at his temper.
"So that's it!" she exclaimed viciously.
"That's what?"
"The secret of your bad temper."
"Well, to be kept in the dark doesn't sweeten a man, certainly," Erskine answered, in a tone, however, that was far from bitter. "Then one can't help feeling disappointed with Tiny; and in this matter—to be frank with you at last—I am just a little disappointed in you too, my dear."
"I always knew you would be," said Ruth dolefully. For her stone had missed, and there was no more fight in her.
"Now don't be a goose. It's only in this one matter, in which—I can't help telling you—I don't think you've been perfectly straight with me."