“I know you would!” and Ruth spoke so earnestly that Randal was both touched and startled, fearing he had ventured too far in a mood of unwonted sentiment, born of the romance of the hour and the sweet frankness of his companion.
“Then you don’t think it would be rash for some sweet woman to take me in hand and make me happy, since fame is a failure?”
“Oh, no; it would be easy work if she loved you. I know some one—if I only dared to tell her name.”
“Upon my soul, this is cool,” and Randal looked down, wondering if the audacious lady on his arm could be shy Ruth.
If he had seen the malicious merriment in her eyes he would have been more humiliated still, but they were modestly averted, and the face under the little hat was full of a soft agitation rather dangerous even to a man of the world.
“She is a captivating little creature, but it is too soon for anything but a mild flirtation. I must delay further innocent revelations or I shall do something rash.”
While making this excellent resolution Randal had been pressing the hand upon his arm and gently pacing down the dimly lighted hall with the sound of music in his ears, Ruth’s sweetest roses in his button-hole, and a loving little girl beside him, as he thought.
“You shall tell me by and by when we are in town. I am sure you will come, and meanwhile don’t forget me.”
“I am going in the spring, but I shall not be with Sophie,” answered Ruth, in a whisper.
“With whom then? I shall long to see you.”