Rex’s cap lay beside him, his head leaned back against the tree, his face was turned up to the bending branches. Presently he closed his eyes.
It might have been one minute, or ten. Ruth sat and watched him. He had grown very handsome. He had that pleasant air of good breeding which some men retain under any and all circumstances. It has nothing to do with character, and yet it is difficult to think ill of a man who possesses it. When she had seen him last, his nose was too near a snub to inspire much respect, and his mustache was still in the state of colorless scarcity. Now his hair and mustache were thick and tawny, and his features were clear and firm. She noticed the pleasant line of the cheek, the clean curve of the chin, the light on the crisp edges of his close-cut hair—the two freckles on his nose, and she decided that that short, straight nose, with its generous and humorous nostrils, was wholly fascinating. As girls always will, she began to wonder about his life—idly at first, but these speculations lead one sometimes farther than one was prepared to go at the start. How much of his delightful manner to them all was due to affection, and how much to kindliness and good spirits? How much did he care for those other friends, for that other life in Paris? Who were the friends? What was the life? She looked at him, it seemed to her, a long time. Had he ever loved a woman? Was he still in love, perhaps, with someone? Ruth was no child. But she was a lady, and a proud one. There were things she did not choose to think about, although she knew of their existence well enough. She brought herself up at this point with a sharp pull, and just then Gethryn, opening his eyes, smiled at her.
She turned quickly away; to her perfect consternation her cheeks grew hot. Bewildered by her own confusion, she rose as she turned, and saying how lovely the water looked, went and stood on the bridge, leaning over. Rex was on his feet in an instant, so covered with confusion too, that he never saw hers.
“I say, Ruth, I haven’t been such a brute as to fall asleep! Indeed I haven’t! I was thinking of Braith.”
“And if you had fallen asleep you wouldn’t be a brute, you tired boy! And who is Braith?”
Ruth turned smiling to meet him, restored to herself and thankful for the diversion.
“Braith,” said Rex earnestly. “Braith is the best man in this wicked world, and my dearest friend. To whom,” he added, “I have not written one word since I left him two ears ago.”
Ruth’s face fell. “Is that the way you treat your dearest friends?”—and she thought: “No wonder one is neglected when one is only an old playmate!”—but she was instantly ashamed of the little bitterness, and put it aside.
“Ah! you don’t know of what we are capable,” said Gethryn; and once more a shadow fell on his face.
A familiar form came jauntily down the road. Ruth hastened to meet it. “At last, Father! You want your luncheon, poor dear!”