“I have no idea,” she answered, with her dark eyes fixed upon him, “but it's a promising field for investigation.”'
“I don't want to see the experiment.”
“Don't worry,” said Ruth, laconically, “you won't.”
There was a long silence, and Winfield began to draw designs on the bare earth with a twig. “Tell me about the lady who is considered crazy,” he suggested.
Ruth briefly described Miss Ainslie, dwelling lovingly upon her beauty and charm. He listened indifferently at first, but when she told him of the rugs, the real lace which edged the curtains, and the Cloisonne vase, he became much interested.
“Take me to see her some day, won't you,” he asked, carelessly.
Ruth's eyes met his squarely. “'T isn't a 'story,'” she said, resentfully, forgetting her own temptation.
The dull colour flooded his face. “You forget, Miss Thorne, that I am forbidden to read or write.”
“For six months only,” answered Ruth, sternly, “and there's always a place for a good Sunday special.”
He changed the subject, but there were frequent awkward pauses and the spontaniety was gone. She rose, adjusting her belt in the back, and announced that it was time for her to go home.