“Fathers make, like mothers, I imagine, a poor substitute for brides,” said Ruth. She glanced at him with amusement. “Never, my nurse used to tell me, is a good while. Did that foolish youth find his bride?” she added, absorbed apparently in her occupation, “when he came back to claim her? As he did at last, you may rest assured.”
Pontycroft made no reply to this question, but he placed his book on the table and prepared to descend the steps:
“God help thee, Ruth,”
he exclaimed.
“Such pains she had
That she in half a year went mad.”
“I'm sure she would have gone mad in twenty-four hours if you had been by to persecute the poor thing,” answered Ruth. She beat a hasty retreat towards the Pergola, whither, she knew, Ponty's laziness would check pursuit of her.
“When Ruth was left half desolate,” Ponty, casually, after luncheon, observed—
“Her lover took another state.
And Ruth not thirty years old.”