The quick tears filled Miss Ainslie's eyes and she smiled through the mist. “Thank you, deary,” she whispered, “it's a long time since any one has kissed me—a long time!”
Ruth turned back at the gate, to wave her hand, and even at that distance, saw that Miss Ainslie was very pale.
Winfield was waiting for her, just outside the hedge, but his presence jarred upon her strangely, and her salutation was not cordial.
“Is the lady a friend of yours?” he inquired, indifferently.
“She is,” returned Ruth; “I don't go to see my enemies—do you?”
“I don't know whether I do or not,” he said, looking at her significantly.
Her colour rose, but she replied, sharply: “For the sake of peace, let us assume that you do not.”
“Miss Thorne,” he began, as they climbed the hill, “I don't see why you don't apply something cooling to your feverish temper. You have to live with yourself all the time, you know, and, occasionally, it must be very difficult. A rag, now, wet in cold water, and tied around your neck—have you ever tried that? It's said to be very good.”
“I have one on now,” she answered, with apparent seriousness, “only you can't see it under my ribbon. It's getting dry and I think I'd better hurry home to wet it again, don't you?”
Winfield laughed joyously. “You'll do,” he said.