Winfield crimsoned to the roots of his hair and hurled the dipper into the distance.
“What—what—they said,” he stammered, sitting down awkwardly. “Oh, darn it!” He kicked savagely at a root, and added, in bitterest self accusation, “I'm a chump, I am!”
“No you're not,” returned Ruth, with sweet shyness, “you're nice. Now we'll read some more of the paper.”
He assumed a feverish interest in the market reports, but his thoughts were wandering. Certainly, nothing could have been worse. He felt as if a bud, which he had been long and eagerly watching, was suddenly torn open by a vandal hand. When he first touched Ruth's eyes with his finger tips, he had trembled like a schoolboy, and he wondered if she knew it.
If she did, she made no sign. Her cheeks were flushed, the lids of her downcast eyes were pink, and her voice had lost its crisp, incisive tones, but she read rapidly, without comment or pause, until the supply of news gave out. Then she began on the advertisements, dreading the end of her task and vainly wishing for more papers, though in her heart there was something sweet, which, even to herself, she dared not name.
“That'll do,” he said, abruptly, “I'm not interested in the 'midsummer glove clearing.' I meant to tell you something when I first came—I've got to go away.”
Ruth's heart throbbed painfully, as if some cold hand held it fast. “Yes,” she said, politely, not recognising her own voice.
“It's only for a week—I've got to go to the oculist and see about some other things. I'll be back before long.”
“I shall miss you,” she said, conventionally. Then she saw that he was going away to relieve her from the embarrassment of his presence, and blessed him accordingly.
“When are you going?” she asked.