Ruth and her father used to come home with their arms full of wild flowers—the fair, lovely wild blossoms of Bavaria which sprang up everywhere in their path. The colonel was great company on these expeditions, singing airs from obsolete operas of his youth, and telling stories of La Grange, Brignoli and Amodio, of the Strakosches and Maretzeks, with much liveliness. Sometimes there would be a silence, however, and then if Ruth looked up she often met his eyes. Then he would smile and say:
“Well, Daisy!” and she would smile and say:
“Well, dear!”
But this could not last. About a week after Yvonne’s visit, the colonel, after one of these walks, instead of joining Rex for a smoke, left him sitting with Ruth under the beech tree and mounted the stairs to Mrs Dene’s room.
It was an hour later when he rose and kissed his wife, who had been sitting at her window all the time of their quiet talk, with eyes fixed on the young people below.
“I never dreamed of it!” said he.
“I did, I wished it,” was her answer. “I thought he was—but they are all alike!” she ended sadly and bitterly. “To think of a boy as wellborn as Rex—” But the colonel, who possibly knew more about wellborn boys than his wife did, interrupted her:
“Hang the boys! It’s Ruth I’m grieved for!”
“My daughter needs no one’s solicitude, not even ours!” said the old lady haughtily.
“Right! Thank God!” said the veteran, in a tone of relief. “Good night, my dear!”