“I have, I think—nay, I boldly say—led your mind in its studies, and guided your reading,” continued Montaigne in the same low, bland voice, every tone of which was musical, deep, and sweet. It had not a harsh, jarring tone, but all was carefully modulated, and lent a charm to what he spoke.
Ruth murmured something about feeling very grateful, and wished that he would go.
“Tell me, child,” he said gently, and now one soft hand glided to Ruth’s wrist, and a finger rested upon her pulse, probably that the mental physician might test the regularity of the beats produced by his long-administered moral medicine, “what are you reading now?”
“‘Froissart’s Chronicle,’” replied Ruth.
“An excellent work—one which leads the mind to an appreciation of chivalry and the noble deeds of the past. Any work of fiction?”
“Ye-es,” faltered Ruth; “I have read part of a novel.”
“That the Misses Dymcox placed in your hands?”
“No,” faltered Ruth, speaking like a found-out child. “Ought I to tell you, Mr Montaigne?”
“Assuredly, my child. What should you keep from me?”
“It was a work by George Eliot that Clotilde had obtained from the library.”