‘My dear,’ said the old gentleman, smiling, ‘if you are so very caustic, I shall have to collect your observations and publish them.’
‘Oh, I know what I say is ridiculous in your eyes, John. If I was a Patagonian woman, with a ring through my nose, you’d listen fast enough, I dare say, though I did talk in an outlandish language.’
‘The Patagonian women, my dear Mary, do not wear rings through their noses, Mr. Jones, who lived among them——’
‘More shame for him! I dare say he left his wife and children to the parish.’
Mr. Adrian was fairly roused on his favourite subject. He rushed with ardour to the defence of the Rev. Mr. Jones and the ladies of Patagonia.
Mrs. Adrian replied with all the homely sarcasm of which she was mistress.
Ruth, who knew of old that the duel would probably rage till supper-time, or till Mr. Adrian, exhausted, resigned the Patagonians to their fate, and sought refuge in the Times’ City article—a neutral ground, which Mrs. Adrian allowed him to enjoy in peace—was about to creep out and have a quiet half-hour in her little room by herself, when the servant entered with an announcement that a ‘young person and a dawg’ were at the door, asking for Miss Ruth.
Ruth started up, and her cheeks went a burning crimson. It was Gertie come to warn her that Marston was in danger. What should she do?
She stammered something, and was about to leave the room and go out to Gertie, when Mrs. Adrian stopped her.
‘Ruth!’