“And, Jack dear,” Ruth would murmur, as if some new thought had welled up in her heart—and then nothing would follow, until Jack would loosen his clasp a little—just enough to free the dear cheek and say:
“Go on, my darling,” and then would come—
“Oh, nothing, Jack—I—” and once more their lips would meet.
It was only when MacFarlane's firm step was heard on the stairs outside that the two awoke to another world. Jack reached his feet first.
“Shall we tell him?” he asked, looking down into her face.
“Of course, tell him,” braved out Ruth, uptilting her head with the movement of a fawn surprised in the forest.
“When?” asked Jack, his eager eyes on the opening door.
“Now, this very minute. I never keep anything from daddy.”
MacFarlane came sauntering in, his strong, determined, finely cut features illumined by a cheery smile. He had squared things with himself while he had been dressing: “Hard lines, Henry, isn't it?” he had asked of himself, a trick of his when he faced any disaster like the present. “Better get Ruth off somewhere, Henry, don't you think so? Yes, get her off to-morrow. The little girl can't stand everything, plucky as she is.” It was this last thought of his daughter that had sent the cheery smile careering around his firm lips. No glum face for Ruth!
They met him half-way down the room, the two standing together, Jack's arm around her waist.