IX. By Humble Means
As lightly as a rose petal upon the shimmering surface of a stream, Summer was drifting away, but whither, no one seemed to care. The odour of printer's ink upon the morning paper no longer aroused vain longings in Winfield's breast, and Ruth had all but forgotten her former connection with the newspaper world.
By degrees, Winfield had arranged a routine which seemed admirable. Until luncheon time, he was with Ruth and, usually, out of doors, according to prescription. In the afternoon, he went up again, sometimes staying to dinner, and, always, he spent his evenings there.
“Why don't you ask me to have my trunk sent up here?” he asked Ruth, one day.
“I hadn't thought of it,” she laughed. “I suppose it hasn't seemed necessary.”
“Miss Hathaway would be pleased, wouldn't she, if she knew she had two guests instead of one?”
“Undoubtedly; how could she help it?”
“When do you expect her to return?”
“I don't know—I haven't heard a word from her. Sometimes I feel a little anxious about her.” Ruth would have been much concerned for her relative's safety, had she known that the eccentric lady had severed herself from the excursion and gone boldly into Italy, unattended, and with no knowledge of the language.