Jack's heart gave a bound. No more delightful duty could devolve on him.
“What shall I tell her about the damage if she asks me, sir?” he demanded, hiding his pleasure in a perfunctory, businesslike tone, “and she will.”
“Tell her it means all summer here for me and no new bonnets for her until next winter,” replied MacFarlane with a grim smile.
“Yes, I suppose, but I referred to the money loss,” Jack laughed in reply. “There is no use worrying her if we are not to blame for this.” He didn't intend to worry her. He was only feeling about for some topic which would prolong his visit and encourage conversation.
“If we are, it means some thousands of dollars on the wrong side of the ledger,” answered MacFarlane after a pause, a graver tone in his voice. “But don't tell Ruth that. Just give her my message about the bonnet—she will understand.”
“But not if McGowan is liable,” argued Jack. If Ruth was to hear bad news it could at least be qualified.
“That depends somewhat on the wording of his contract, Breen, and a good deal on whether this village wants to hold him to it. I'm not crossing any bridges of that kind, and don't you. What I'm worrying about is the number of days and nights it's going to take to patch this work so they can get trains through our tunnel—And, Breen—”
“Yes, sir,” answered Jack, as he stopped and looked over his shoulder. There were wings on his feet now.
“Get into some dry clothes before you come back.”
While all this had been going on Ruth had stood at the window in the upper hall opposite the one banked with geraniums, too horrified to move. She had watched with the aid of her opera-glass the wild torrent rushing through the meadow, and she had heard the shouts of the people in the streets and the prolonged roar when the boulevard embankment gave way.