“A—a gentleman?” gasped Mrs. Spofford. “Good gracious!”
“He will not annoy me,” said Ruth, absently study-ing the tips of her slim, shapely shoes. “Possess your soul in peace. I think I know him.”
“Are you defending the braggart?”
“Not at all! I detest him,” cried the girl, springing to her feet, her face crimsoning. “He is perfectly abominable.”
“I—I wouldn't speak quite so loudly, my dear,” cautioned her aunt, glancing at the door uneasily—“It would be like him to listen outside the door,—or at any rate, one of his men may have been set to spy upon—”
“Don't be silly, Aunt Julia. And don't be afraid. Mr. Percival isn't going to make us walk the plank for mutiny, or put us in chains,—or outrage us,—if that is what you are thinking. Now, go to bed, you old dear, and—”
“I insist on your staying in my room, Ruth. He is in love with you.”
“He can be in love with me and still be a gentleman, can't he, Aunt Julia? Don't worry! I shall sleep in my own room. I may even go so far as to leave my door unlocked.”
“What! And if he should come to—”
“Ah, I shan't send him word that it's unlocked, dear,” scoffed Ruth, finding a malicious enjoyment in her aunt's dismay. “Good-night. Sleep tight! We must sleep while we have the opportunity, you know. Our lazy days will soon be over. He says we've all got to work like,—I think he said dogs.”