She actually stamped her little foot while walking.
“Well?”
“Stop that, please. You are not my keeper.”
Her cousin smiled quizzically. They took their seats on the dummy, just as the sun, a golden ball, was about to glide behind Lone Mountain. Late afternoon is a quiet time, and Ruth and Louis did not speak for a while.
The girl was experiencing a whirl of conflicting emotions,—anger at Louis’s interference, pleasure at his protecting care, annoyance at what he considered gross negligence on the doctor’s part, and a sneaking pride, in defiance of his insinuations, over the thought that Kemp had trusted to her womanliness as a safeguard against any chance annoyance. She also felt ashamed at having showed temper.
“Louis,” she ventured finally, rubbing her shoulder against his, as gentle animals conciliate their mates, “I am sorry I spoke so harshly; but it exasperates me to hear you cast slurs, as you have done before, upon Dr. Kemp in his absence.”
“Why should it, my dear, since it give you a chance to uphold him?”
There is a way of saying “my dear” that is as mortifying as a slap in the face.
The dark blood surged over the girl’s cheeks. She drew a long, hard breath, and then said in a low voice,—
“I think we will not quarrel, Louis. Will you get off at the next corner with me? I have a prescription to be made up at the drug-store.”