That was all, but Ruth looked up with an unspoken question and his eyes met hers clearly, with no turning aside. She knew he would come back very soon and she understood his answer—that he had the right.
As she entered the house, Hepsey said, pleasantly: “Has he gone away, Miss Thorne?”
“Yes,” she answered, without emotion. She was about to say that she did not care for luncheon, then decided that she must seem to care.
Still, it was impossible to escape that keen-eyed observer. “You ain't eatin' much,” she suggested.
“I'm not very hungry.”
“Be you sick, Miss Thorne?”
“No—not exactly. I've been out in the sun and my head aches,” she replied, clutching at the straw.
“Do you want a wet rag?”
Ruth laughed, remembering an earlier suggestion of Winfield's. “No, I don't want any wet rag, Hepsey, but I'll go up to my room for a little while, I think. Please don't disturb me.”
She locked her door, shutting out all the world from the nameless joy that surged in her heart. The mirror disclosed flushed, feverish cheeks and dark eyes that shone like stars. “Ruth Thorne,” she said to herself, “I'm ashamed of you! First you act like a fool and then like a girl of sixteen!”