“Pooh! Do you suppose he would stand up and fight them if they rushed at him? Not he! He would turn and run as fast as he could. He is no fool, my dear. He is a very intelligent man. So he would run if they make a single move toward him.”
“I think this is rather a poor time to accuse him of cowardice, Madame Obosky, in view of what he—”
“Have I accused him of cowardice?”
“I'd like to know what you call it. You say he would run if they—”
“But that would not be cowardice. It would be the simplest kind of common sense. He is so very sure of himself. It is not courage. It is confidence. That is his strength. He would be a fool to stand in front of them empty-handed if they were to charge upon him. Maybe when you have known him as long as I have, you will realize he is not a fool,—about himself or any one else.”
Ruth stared at her. “Unless I am greatly mistaken, Madame Obosky, I have known Mr. Percival as long if not longer than you have.”
“You do not know him at all,” rejoined the Russian brusquely. “Be still, please! I must hear what he is saying to them now.” A little later she turned to the American girl and laid her hand on her arm. “For-give me, if I was rude to you. I am so very much older than you that I—how old are you, Miss Clinton?”
“I am twenty-five,” replied the other, surprised into replying.
“And I am twenty-six,” said Madame Obosky, as if she were at least twice the age of her companion. “See! They are dispersing. It's all over. Come! Let us go back to the other side.”
“I am not ready to go back to the other side,” protested the American girl, resisting the hand on her arm. “Why should we go back, now that the danger is over?”