She laughed. “But suppose they were to say they did love you,—what then?”
“That, I understand, is what they generally do say,—and it causes a great deal of trouble for the unfortunate gentleman.”
“Are you never in earnest, Mr. Percival?”
“I was very much in earnest a moment ago. You knew how much in earnest I was or you wouldn't have said that nasty thing about Manuel Crust.”
“I am sorry I said it,” she cried. “It was uncalled for,—and I was deliberately trying to be mean.”
“I knew it,” he said quietly. “I don't think any the worse of you for it. A woman plays fair until you get her into a corner,—and then she plays fairer than ever to make up for what she did when cornered. Am I not right?”
She did not reply. She was staring past him, down the line of huts. The door of Olga Obosky's cabin had opened and closed, projecting for an instant an oblong block of light into the darkness. The figure of a woman, emerging into the full light of the moon, had caught Ruth's attention. Percival turned quickly. Together they watched the figure move swiftly across the Green toward them. Suddenly it stopped, and then, after a moment, whirled and made off down the line of cabins, soon to be swallowed up by the gloom.
“Were you expecting some one?” inquired Ruth, icily.
He was still looking intently into the far-reaching gloom. Neither had spoken for many seconds. He started, and looked searchingly into her eyes.
“That was Madame Obosky,” he said.