“Good morning, my pretty maid,” said Pontycroft, “you're not going a-milking in that costume, are you?” He eyed her sharply with the quizzical glint she knew well.
“Good morning,” Ruth answered, in perfect composure. Yet at the anticipation of seeing Pontycroft alone, she had many times felt the earth quake under her,—“I'm going to call upon Lucilla,” she vouchsafed.
“Oh, Lucilla's knocked up. I came with a message from her. She wants me to say she's had her breakfast in bed and won't rise until luncheon. Lucilla's tired from the journey. You two women must have talked yourselves weary, if a mere man may judge of such matter. Oh, the hour at which I caught sight of Paolina conducting you over the hill last night!” said Ponty.
“It was a beautiful moonlit night,” said Ruth, inhaling the morning air with delight, “and so,—why not?”
“Why not, indeed,” he agreed. “What a surprise it was, though, to find the Bolingbrokes here. He's a decent chap.”
“Yes, I like them very much,” Ruth said, absently.
“And your uncle,” Ponty proceeded, “I like him very much,” he paraphrased. “We held an uproarious pow-wow in the library, the three of us, last night, while you women discussed chiffons in the music-room. By-the-bye, that was rather a nice thing that somebody played,” and Ponty hummed the first bars of the Valse Lente. “You were the musician, I suspect.”
“I suppose so,” Ruth said, negligently. They were standing beside the flight of stone steps which leads from the rose-garden to the hill.
“Where are the Bolingbrokes?” enquired Pontycroft.
“Gone for the day, with the Wetherbys, on their yacht. It's a party of twelve and they expect to come back by moonlight.”