Ruth briefly described Miss Ainslie, dwelling lovingly upon her
beauty and charm. He listened indifferently at first, but when
she told him of the rugs, the real lace which edged the curtains,
and the Cloisonne vase, he became much interested.

"Take me to see her some day, won't you," he asked, carelessly.

Ruth's eyes met his squarely. "'T isn't a 'story,'" she said,
resentfully, forgetting her own temptation.

The dull colour flooded his face. "You forget, Miss Thorne, that
I am forbidden to read or write."

"For six months only," answered Ruth, sternly, "and there's
always a place for a good Sunday special."

He changed the subject, but there were frequent awkward pauses
and the spontaniety was gone. She rose, adjusting her belt in the
back, and announced that it was time for her to go home.

On their way up the hill, she tried to be gracious enough to
atone for her rudeness, but, though he was politeness itself,
there was a difference, and she felt as if she had lost
something. Distance lay between them--a cold, immeasurable
distance, yet she knew that she had done right.

He opened the gate for her, then turned to go. "Won't you come
in?" she asked, conventionally.