Mrs. Adrian, looking up from her knitting, and noticing the far-away look on her daughter’s face, spoke her mind on the subject.
‘What’s the matter with you, Ruth? Why don’t you do something instead of sitting mumchancing there, staring at the fire as if you expected to see somebody walk out of it? I hope you’re not going to sit like that long. It gives me the creeps.’
Ruth coloured, and picked up the work which had fallen into her lap.
‘I beg your pardon, mother dear,’ she said softly; ‘I was thinking.’
‘Well, my dear, I could see that; but you can think without looking like a death’s head at an evening party. It’s my idea you’ve something on your mind. What do you think, John?’
‘Eh, my dear? What do you say?’ asked Mr. Adrian, looking up from his book.
‘I said, if you’d leave those blessed Paddygonians you’re always talking about——’
Patagonians, my dear.’
‘Oh, bother!—Pat and Paddy, it’s the same thing. If you’d leave them and look at your own flesh and blood, you’d be doing your duty as a father better——’
‘What’s the matter now, my dear?’