“Have they got that far?”
“I don't know,” replied Winfield, with the air of one imparting a confidence. “You see, though I have been in this peaceful village for some little time, I have not yet arrived at the fine distinction between 'walking out, 'settin' up,' and 'stiddy comp'ny.' I should infer that 'walking out' came first, for 'settin' up' must take a great deal more courage, but even 1, with my vast intellect, cannot at present understand 'stiddy comp'ny.'”
“Joe takes her out every Sunday in the carriage,” volunteered Ruth, when the silence became awkward.
“In the what?”
“Carriage—haven't you ridden in it?”
“I have ridden in them, but not in it. I walked to the 'Widder's,' but if it is the conveyance used by travellers, they are both 'walking out' and 'settin' up.'”
They paused at the gate. “Thank you for a pleasant afternoon,” said Winfield. “I don't have many of them.”
“You're welcome,” returned Ruth, conveying the impression of great distance.
Winfield sighed, then made a last desperate attempt. “Miss Thorne,” he said, pleadingly, “please don't be unkind to me. You have my reason in your hands. I can see myself now, sitting on the floor, at one end of the dangerous ward. They'll smear my fingers with molasses and give me half a dozen feathers to play with. You'll come to visit the asylum, sometime, when you're looking for a special, and at first, you won't recognise me. Then I'll say: 'Woman, behold your work,' and you'll be miserable all the rest of your life.”
She laughed heartily at the distressing picture, and the plaintive tone of his voice pierced her armour. “What's the matter with you?” she asked.