“I—I must confess that I should have liked to go,” faltered Ruth.
“Well, yes, it was very natural,” he replied; and as Ruth glanced quickly at him, she felt that there was a grave smile upon his face. She could barely see it, for the room was growing darker, and now, for a few moments, her tremor began to increase.
“But Clotilde and Marie are older than I, and it was only natural that they should be preferred. And then, Mr Montaigne, they are so beautiful.”
“Not more beautiful than you are, Ruth.”
“Mr Montaigne!”
She made an effort to withdraw her hand, but it was tightly retained.
“Not more beautiful in person, less beautiful in mind and temperament, my child,” continued Montaigne. “Don’t try to withdraw your hand; I wish to talk seriously to you.”
Ruth felt that to struggle would be unseemly, and though she felt an undefined dread of her position, her reason seemed to combat what she was ready to condemn as fancy, and Mr Montaigne had known her from, and still addressed her as, a “child.”
“I should feel deeply disappointed if it were not so, Ruth; for I look upon you as one whose mind I have helped to train, whose growing intellect I have tried to form, and bias towards a love of the beautiful and pure and good.”
Ruth felt more at her ease, and less troubled that the visitor should retain her hand.