Olga went to the door with her.
“You mean, you intend to fight it out with Mr. Percivail,—you yourself, eh?”
“It is not a personal matter with me, let me remind you once more. He is their leader. He dominates them. He is the force that holds them together. That's all.”
“And you would render that force impotent, eh? I see. How wise you women are!”
Ruth stopped short, struck by the remark. “Say that again, please.”
Olga repeated the words slowly, significantly, and added: “They might have a worse leader, Miss Clinton.”
At another time, Ruth Clinton would have been deeply impressed by the underlying significance of the Russian's words. But she was at the mercy of a stubborn, rebellious pride. She chose to ignore the warning that lay in Obosky's remark. She felt herself beaten, and she was defiant. It was too late to hark now to the mild, temperate voice of reason.
Something rankled deep down in her soul, something she was ashamed to acknowledge even to herself. It was the disagreeable conviction that Percival ascribed her activities to nothing more stable than feminine perversity,—in fact, she had the uncomfortable feeling that he even went so far as to attribute them to spitefulness. Something in his voice and manner, as he left her that morning, suggested the kindly chiding of a wilful child. Well, he should see!
“I don't care what it all comes to, Madame Obosky,” she said, a red spot in each cheek. “He shall not name that baby.”
The Russian smiled. “Forgive me for saying that you will not feel so bitterly toward him when the time comes for him to name your baby.”