“I can't take back what I did this morning, and I wouldn't if I could,” he said, falling in beside Mrs. Spofford. “I know you are displeased with me. Can't we thresh it out now, Mrs. Spofford?”
The elder woman raised her chin and stared at him coldly. He shot a glance past her at the girl's face. There was no encouragement to be found in the calm, unsmiling eyes.
“I fail to see precisely why we should thresh anything out with you, Mr. Percival,” replied Mrs. Spofford.
“It is barely possible that you are not quite clear as to my motives, and therefore unable to gauge my actions.”
“I understand your motives perfectly,—and I approve of them. Your actions are not so acceptable. Good-night, Mr. Percival.”
He smiled whimsically at Ruth. “My left hand is rather in need of attention, Miss Clinton. I suppose I am so deeply in your bad graces that I may not hope for—er—the same old kindness?”
She stopped short. “Is this a request or a command? Mr. Percival, I will be quite frank with you. Mr. Landover is our friend. I am not, however, defending him in the position he has taken. There is no reason why he should not do his share with the rest of the men. But was it necessary to humiliate him, was it necessary to insult him as you did this morning? He is a distinguished man. He—”
“Are you coming, Ruth?” demanded Mrs. Spofford, sharply.
“In just a moment, Aunt Julia.”
“You will oblige me by coming with me at once. We have nothing more to say to this young man.”