“A proper feeling,” her aunt commented. “No doubt, he is no worse than the others; but men’s ideas are very lax nowadays.”
Ruth was more amused than resentful. Though she was her father’s staunch partisan, she believed her aunt distrusted the makers of rapid fortunes as a class rather than her brother-in-law in particular, and that her frugal mind shrank with old-fashioned aversion from modern luxury. For all that, Caroline Dexter had roused the girl’s curiosity as to her father’s fortune and she determined to learn something about his years of struggle when opportunity offered.
A moving cloud of dust rose among the firs where the descending road crossed the hillside, and a big gray automobile flashed across an opening. Ruth knew the car, and there was only one man of her acquaintance who would bring it down the water-seamed dip at that reckless speed.
“It’s Aynsley,” she said, with a pleased expression. “I’ll bring him here.”
“And who is Aynsley?”
“I forgot you don’t know. He’s Aynsley Clay, the son of my father’s old partner, and runs in and out of the house when he’s at home.”
Turning away, she hurried toward the house, and as she reached it a young man came out on the veranda. He was dressed in white flannel, with a straw hat and blue serge jacket, and his pleasant face was bronzed by the sea.
“I came right through,” he said, holding out his hand. “It was particularly nice of you to leave your chair to meet me.”
“I’m glad to see you back,” Ruth responded. “Did you have a pleasant time? When did you get home?”
“Left the yacht at Portland yesterday, and came straight on. Found the old man out of town, and decided I’d stop at Martin’s place. I’m due there this evening.”