Ruth stiffened. “What did she tell you?”
“She told me I was a fool and a coward; that all I had to do was to walk up to you and say 'Here, I want you,' and that would have been the end of my suspense. She told me something I didn't know and couldn't believe.”
“Indeed! I like her impudence! She—”
“She told me you were as much in love with me as I was with you. Honest,—was she right?”
Ruth sighed. “I suppose she was right.”
“And would you have come to me if I had said 'I want you '?”
“If you had said it as you say it now, I—listen! Good gracious! There are the children!”
She sprang to her feet, blushing furiously. The door opened and three small children were fairly blown into the room,—three swarthy, black-eyed urchins who stared in some doubt at the “boss” and the adored “teacher.”
“Good morning, children,” she cried out jerkily, and then glanced at each of the windows in quick succession. “You don't suppose,—” she began under her breath, turning to Percival with a distressed look in her eyes.
“I wouldn't put it above 'em,” said he, cheerfully.