“Never!” he answered, strangely stirred.
“Thank you,” she whispered brokenly, drawing away from him. “You look so much like—like some one I used to know.”
At dusk they went into the house. Except for the hall, it was square, with two partitions dividing it. The two front rooms were separated by an arch, and the dining-room and kitchen were similarly situated at the back of the house, with a china closet and pantry between them.
Miss Ainslie's table, of solid mahogany, was covered only with fine linen doilies, after a modern fashion, and two quaint candlesticks, of solid silver, stood opposite each other. In the centre, in a silver vase of foreign pattern, there was a great bunch of asters—white and pink and blue.
The repast was simple—chicken fried to a golden brown, with creamed potatoes, a salad made of fresh vegetables from the garden, hot biscuits, deliciously light, and the fragrant Chinese tea, served in the Royal Kaga cups, followed by pound cake, and pears preserved in a heavy red syrup.
The hostess sat at the head of the table, dispensing a graceful hospitality. She made no apology, such as prefaced almost every meal at Aunt Jane's. It was her best, and she was proud to give it—such was the impression.
Afterward, when Ruth told her that she was going back to the city, Miss Ainslie's face grew sad.
“Why—why must you go?” she asked.
“I'm interrupting the honeymoon,” Ruth answered, “and when I suggested departure, Aunty agreed to it immediately. I can't very well stay now, can I?”
“My dear,” said Miss Ainslie, laying her hand upon Ruth's, “if you could, if you only would—won't you come and stay with me?”