“I must bid you good-bye,” said he, lifting his hat, “it's long past noon,—almost your luncheon hour.”
“Oh,” Ruth suggested, “since you and my uncle are friends won't you come in to us for lunch? You shall go back to your shooting, your rescuing of damsels, when we've refreshed you. I dare say there's some of that quail left,” she added, with an occult smile.
“Miss Adgate,”—the young man visibly struggled with temptation.... “Miss Adgate,” he looked into the pretty flushed face and he felt himself smitten to the heart's core. “That's very good of you; I'm afraid, though, you don't know our New England customs. You've a hospitable, beautiful English habit, but you've not been here long enough to know that we don't ask folk unexpected-like to lunch; not unless they're blood relatives or bosom friends. Tradition, ceremony, convention forbid it and a gorgon more awful still. Her name is—Maria-Jane!”
“Oh!...” Ruth laughed. “But she's paid for that! It is part of her duty....”
“Ah, dear Miss Adgate, you won't find it easy. Love won't buy them, money won't purchase them, though I dare say,—you'll have a way with you will make them see black white. But if you risk asking me, I won't, and for your sake—accept—though I'm horribly tempted to. Besides, think of it, tradition, ceremony, convention.”
Ruth felt herself getting angry. Here was a youth she didn't care twopence for, who had done her more than a civility, but who presumed to instruct her in a provincial code of manners. She would show him she was mistress of her household—then be done with him.
“What ceremony, what convention?” she demanded coldly.
“Oh,” the young man replied undaunted, “no one wants his neighbour to know he sits down to a joint, a couple of vegetables and apple pie for his midday meal. We make such a lot of fuss here when we ask people to eat with us.”
“But that's precisely the staple of every one's luncheon in England, from Commoner to Lord,” cried Ruth. “No one makes a secret of it—it's called the children's dinner. Whatever frills may be added, there or here, the joint, the vegetables and the pudding, which amounts to the pie, are invariably present and the most patronised. I assure you it's the luncheon every one ought to eat. And now,” she commanded, “open the gate and shut it behind you, and be satisfied to partake of our vegetables, our joint and our pudding without further ado.”
“I accept,” said the delighted young fellow. “But if General Adgate turns me out-o'-doors, I shall bend to the New England custom I was brought up in and not hold you responsible for my discomfiture.”