“’Tis your turn to pay the forfeit now!” cried he. “I’ve bowed to the wittiest and knelt to the prettiest; I’d have finished the job if you’d ha’ let me. ’Tis your turn, I say; I’ll let you off all but the last.”
“I don’t know what you take me for, Chris Ryves,” cried Ruby tremulously. “I think you should be ashamed of yourself. You ought to know enough of me by this time to see that I’m not that kind of girl.”
“Well, I be that kind o’ man,” returned Chris obstinately. “This here’s the end—this here’s my last chance. If you want your precious letter, you must pay for it.”
“How dare you?” cried Ruby, turning as white as a sheet. “You are very much mistaken, Mr. Ryves. I’d rather die—than—than——”
“Than have anything to say to me,” he interrupted fiercely. “Oh, I know that very well, Miss Damory; you’re not for the likes o’ me, as you did show me plain enough at the beginning of our acquaintance. But a chap isn’t so very bad if he does ask for a crumb before the whole loaf is handed over to another man. Give me one, Ruby—just one!”
Ruby backed away from him against the hedge.
“This is an insult,” she cried.
“An insult!” he repeated, suddenly sobered. “Oh, if you look on it that way. There’s your letter,” he went on, dropping his voice. “There’s your letter, Miss Damory; I hope it’ll give ye every joy and satisfaction.”
And with that he handed the disputed document to the schoolmistress, took off his hat with a flourish, and marched away quick time. Not so quick, however, but that a little petulant cry fell upon his ears, and, wheeling involuntarily, he saw that the letter had been flung upon the ground, and that Ruby Damory was leaning against the hedge with her face buried in her hands.
Chris came back at the double.