“What? The haughty damsel who wouldn't let me in? Do tell!”
“You're imitating now,” laughed Ruth, “but I shouldn't call it flattery.”
For a moment, there was a chilly silence. Ruth did not look at him, but she bit her lip and then laughed, unwillingly. “'It's all true,” she said, “I plead guilty.”
“You see, I know all about you,” he went on. “You knit your brows in deep thought, do not hear when you are spoken to, even in a loud voice, and your mail consists almost entirely of bulky envelopes, of a legal nature, such as came to the 'Widder' Pendleton from the insurance people.”
“Returned manuscripts,” she interjected.
“Possibly—far be it from me to say they're not. Why, I've had 'em myself.”
“You don't mean it!” she exclaimed, ironically.
“You seek out, as if by instinct, the only crazy person in the village, and come home greatly perturbed. You ask queer questions of your humble serving-maid, assume a skirt which is shorter than the approved model, speaking from the village standpoint, and unhesitatingly appear on the public streets. You go to the attic at night and search the inmost recesses of many old trunks.”
“Yes,” sighed Ruth, “I've done all that.”
“At breakfast you refuse pie, and complain because the coffee is boiled. Did anybody ever hear of coffee that wasn't boiled? Is it eaten raw in the city? You call supper 'dinner,' and have been known to seek nourishment at nine o'clock at night, when all respectable people are sound asleep. In your trunk, you have vainly attempted to conceal a large metal object, the use of which is unknown.”