“Was that it?” asked Betty, stifling a yawn. “I didn’t know. I heard him saying something about somebody’s ankles—somebody named Ruby—and it didn’t sound quite proper.”
“Ankles? Ruby?” mused Mrs. Kingsford, striving to recollect. “Oh, yes; that was his horse, Betty. He calls her Ruby. He seems very fond of horses and dogs and animals, don’t you think?”
“Very,” answered Betty, her face suddenly arrayed in smiles. “But—what a funny name for a horse!” She laughed softly, and, placing her arm about her mother’s waist, gave a disconcerting hug. “Don’t you think that is a funny name for a horse, mamma?”
Mrs. Kingsford suddenly understood.
“Very,” she answered, smiling discreetly into her mirror.
[CHAPTER XXII]
John’s days were very full, and the estrangement with Phillip troubled him less than it would have had he had more time to give it thought. To David it seemed that John had put the matter entirely from his mind; he never mentioned Phillip any more, and David’s infrequent allusions to that youth were patently unwelcome. Yet John was not so indifferent as he appeared. Recollection of the incident at the boarding-house made his cheeks burn and his fists clench. Yet his real sentiment toward Phillip was one of irritation rather than anger. Could he have taken Phillip by the collar and shaken an explanation out of him he would have been quite satisfied and willing to clasp hands. His liking for the other remained, but was for the while drowned by the exasperation he felt.
He missed Phillip’s companionship for more reasons than one, of which not the least was that without it he seemed entirely cut off from Elaine and Margaret. Several times the temptation to write to Margaret became almost irresistible. He did not yield to it, however, for it seemed to him that the agreement between them tacitly forbade it. His only intelligence of Elaine reached him through Corliss, from whom he received several letters during the winter term. But the news was scanty and unsatisfactory. Mrs. Ryerson’s health, Corliss wrote once, was causing uneasiness; she did not leave her room any more, and while she might live for a year or even two, she was practically helpless. John was glad to learn by a subsequent letter from the same source that Markham had moved over to Elaine. The overseer was a man after John’s heart, and the knowledge that he was at Margaret’s side comforted him. John wondered if Phillip was aware of his mother’s condition, and lost sight of some of his animosity in the sympathy he felt for him.