“Now I understand,” said Olga, gaily, but with the odd, inquiring look still in her eyes. “Alma thought it was I. I have zem very well-trained, those girls. She sees me with a man,—zip! She runs the other way as fast as she can! That is the height of propriety,—is it not, Mrs. Spofford?”
“I do not quite understand what you mean, Madame Obosky.”
“Why did he say it was you?” cried Ruth, hot with chagrin.
Olga shrugged her shoulders. “He is so very amiable,” said she. “I dare say he thought it would please you.”
Ruth bit her lip. There was no mistaking the challenge in the Russian's remark, however careless it may have sounded.
“I came to see you about Mr. Percivail's birthday,” said Olga, abruptly changing the subject. “Some one has suggested zat we all join in giving him a grand great big celebration. Bonfires, fire-works, a banquet with speeches, and all zat kind of thing. What do you think, eh?”
“He wouldn't like it at all,” said Ruth promptly. “Moreover, why should we celebrate his birthday? He doesn't deserve it any more than scores of other—”
“Oh, then we must drop it altogether,” broke in Olga, rather plaintively. “I thought every one would be in favour of it. But, of course, if there is the slightest opposition—”
“I do not oppose it,” said Ruth coldly. “Pray do not let me upset your plans.”
“It is not my plan. Zat nice, sarcastic Mr. Fitts, and Mr. Malone, and Captain Trigger, they have proposed it, Miss Clinton, not I. But men never quite get over being boys. They do not stop to question whether a thing is right or wrong. I dare say after they have thought a little longer over it, zey will agree with you that it is foolish to be so enthusiastic about this fellow Percivail,—and the whole project will dissolve into thin air.”