“Carlton advised me to come up here,” resumed Winfield. “He said you were here, and that you were going back in the Fall. I'm sorry I've lost his letter.”
“What was in it?” inquired Ruth, with a touch of sarcasm. “You read it, didn't you?”
“Of course I read it—that is, I tried to. The thing looked like a prescription, but, as nearly as I could make it out, it was principally a description of the desolation in the office since you left it. At the end there was a line or two commending me to your tender mercies, and here I am.”
“Commending yourself.”
“Now what in the dickens have I done?” thought Winfield. “That's it exactly, Miss Thorne. I've lost my reference, and I'm doing my best to create a good impression without it. I thought that as long as we were going to be on the same paper, and were both exiles—”
He paused, and she finished the sentence for him: “that you'd come to see me. How long have you been in town?”
“'In town' is good,” he said. “I arrived in this desolate, God-forsaken spot just ten days ago. Until now I've hunted and fished every day, but I didn't get anything but a cold. It was very good, of its kind—I couldn't speak above a whisper for three days.”
She had already recognised him as the young man she saw standing in the road the day she went to Miss Ainslie's, and mentally asked his pardon for thinking he was a book-agent. He might become a pleasant acquaintance, for he was tall, clean shaven, and well built. His hands were white and shapely and he was well groomed, though not in the least foppish. The troublesome eyes were dark brown, sheltered by a pair of tinted glasses. His face was very expressive, responding readily to every change of mood.
They talked “shop” for a time, discovering many mutual friends, and Ruth liked him. He spoke easily, though hurriedly, and appeared to be somewhat cynical, but she rightly attributed it to restlessness like her own.
“What are you going to do on The Tribune?” she asked.