Could never find him more.”
“Fathers make, like mothers, I imagine, a poor substitute for brides,”
said Ruth. She glanced at him with amusement. “Never, my nurse used to
tell me, is a good while. Did that foolish youth find his bride?” she
added, absorbed apparently in her occupation, “when he came back to
claim her? As he did at last, you may rest assured.”
Pontycroft made no reply to this question, but he placed his book on the
table and prepared to descend the steps:
“God help thee, Ruth,”
he exclaimed.
“Such pains she had
That she in half a year went mad.”
“I'm sure she would have gone mad in twenty-four hours if you had been
by to persecute the poor thing,” answered Ruth. She beat a hasty retreat
towards the Pergola, whither, she knew, Ponty's laziness would check
pursuit of her.
“When Ruth was left half desolate,” Ponty, casually, after luncheon,
observed--
“Her lover took another state.
And Ruth not thirty years old.”
“Ruth, it seems to me, was old enough to have known better,” retorted
his victim with asperity. “You haven't scanned that last line properly
either. 'And Ruth not thirty years old' gives the correct lilt.” Ruth
sat down to write her letters. She turned her back with deliberation
upon her tormentor, who answered: “Oh, yes, thanks,” and went off
murmuring and tattooing on his fingers,--
“And Ruth not thirty years old....”