Miss Adgate preceded her companion.
“Uncle,” she boldly proclaimed, “I've brought a friend of yours to
luncheon.” General Adgate looked up from his book. “Why--Rutherford!
glad to see you,” he said, shaking hands none too cordially. “So,” he
smiled as he pushed a chair forward for Ruth, “my niece waylaid you, did
she?”
“No,” Ruth told him. “I was waylaid by a serpent in our woods. Mr.
Rutherford happened by at the right moment to rescue me.” Then Ruth went
to the ancient gilt mirror above the fireplace and withdrew the pins
from her hat and rang for Paolina.
“So you saved the lady's life,” General Adgate chuckled. “Well done,
Rutherford, my son--a plausible opening to the story to
please the matter-of-fact public. As though the public were
matter-of-fact!--Nothing is really improbable enough for the public,
provided life's in the telling. We're ready to swallow the most
unconscionable lies! But though you've lost no time in making the
opening ordinary, Rutherford, we shall see what may be done to reward
you.”
“Oh,” objected Rutherford, with happy laughter,--“you of all men should
know it--the service of Beauty brings its own reward to those lucky
enough to serve it?”
“Lunch is served, Miss,” announced Martha patly, putting her head in at
the door.
“Oh, a plate, please, Martha, for this gentleman,” said Ruth.
A shade (was it a look of displeasure?) crept into Martha's face; the
reply came meekly. “Yes, Miss,” she answered--and disappeared.
Miss Adgate threw a gay glance at Rutherford, he returned it with one he
meant to make eloquent of his admiration. But Ruth was saying, in that
ravishing voice of hers: “Shall we go in?” She swept by him into the
low-ceilinged, white-panelled dining-room with an air of dignity in her
slim, young figure which Rutherford thought suited it to perfection.