“Anything,” he answered, with an indefinable shrug. “'Theirs not to reason why, theirs but to do and die.' What are you going to do?”
“The same,” replied Ruth. “'Society,' 'Mother's Corner,' 'Under the Evening Lamp,' and 'In the Kitchen with Aunt Jenny.'”
He laughed infectiously. “I wish Carlton could hear you say that.”
“I don't,” returned Ruth, colouring faintly.
“Why; are you afraid of him?”
“Certainly I am. If he speaks to me, I'm instantly stiff with terror.”
“Oh, he isn't so bad,” said Winfield, reassuringly, “He's naturally abrupt, that's all; and I'll venture he doesn't suspect that he has any influence over you. I'd never fancy that you were afraid of anybody or anything on earth.”
“I'm not afraid of anything else,” she answered, “except burglars and green worms.”
“Carlton would enjoy the classification—really, Miss Thorne, somebody should tell him, don't you think? So much innocent pleasure doesn't often come into the day of a busy man.”
For a moment Ruth was angry, and then, all at once, she knew Winfield as if he had always been her friend. Conventionality, years, and the veneer of society were lightly laid upon one who would always be a boy. Some men are old at twenty, but Winfield would be young at seventy.