“I wish papa would come,” said Ruth, with an anxious look up the road. “He ought to be hungry too, by this time.”
Rex poured her a cup of red Tyroler wine and handed her a sandwich. Then, calling the boy, he gave him such a generous “Viertel” for himself as caused him to retire precipitately and consume it with grins, modified by boiled sausage. Ruth looked after him and smiled in sympathy. “I wonder how papa got rid of the other one with the green tin water-box.”
“I know; I was present at the interview,” laughed Rex. “Your father handed him a ten mark piece and said, ‘Go away, you superfluous Bavarian!’”
“In English?”
“Yes, and he must have understood, for he grinned and went.”
It was good to hear the ring of Ruth’s laugh. She was so happy that she found the smallest joke delightful, and her voice was very sweet. Rex lighted a cigarette and leaned back against a tree, in great comfort. Ruth, perched on a log, watched the smoke drift and curl. Gethryn watched her. They each cared as much for the hours they had spent in the brook, and for their wet clothing, as vigorous, happy, and imprudent youth ever cares about such things.
“So you are happy, Ruth?”
“Perfectly. And you?—But it takes more to make a spoiled young man happy than—”
“Than a spoiled young woman? I don’t know about that. Yes, I—am—happy.” Was the long puff of smoke ascending slowly responsible for the pauses between his words? A slight shadow was in his eyes for one moment. It passed, and he turned on her his most charming smile, as he repeated, “Perfectly happy!”
“Still no colonel!” he went on; “when he comes he will be tired. We don’t want any more trout, do we? We have eighteen, all good ones. Suppose we rest and go back all together by the road?” Ruth nodded, smiling to see him fondle the creel full of shining fish, bedded on fragrant leaves.