“I'm going to discharge her to-morrow,” Ruth said.
“You can't—she is in Miss Hathaway's service, not yours. Besides, what has she done? She came back, probably, after something she had forgotten. You have no reasonable ground for discharging her, and I think you'd be more uncomfortable if she went than if she stayed.”
“Perhaps you're right,” she admitted.
“I know how you feel about it,” he went on, “but I hope you won't let her distress you. It doesn't make a bit of difference to me; she's only amusing. Please don't bother about it.”
“I won't,” said Ruth, “that is, I'll try not to.”
They piled the dishes in the sink, “as a pleasant surprise for Hepsey,” he said, and the hours passed as if on wings. It was almost ten o'clock before it occurred to Winfield that his permanent abode was not Miss Hathaway's parlour.
As they stood at the door, talking, the last train came in. “Do you know,” said Winfield, “that every night, just as that train comes in, your friend down there puts a candle in her front window?”
“Well,” rejoined Ruth, sharply, “what of it? It's a free country, isn't it?”
“Very. Untrammelled press and highly independent women. Good night, Miss Thorne. I'll be up the first thing in the morning.”
She was about to speak, but slammed the door instead, and was displeased when she heard a smothered laugh from outside.