“But if madam will not be on board to look after
Dicky, the more will he need a friend. Mr. Hanmer,
will you be that friend?”
“You are choosing a rough sort of nurse-maid.”
“But will you?” She faced him, wonderful
in the moonlight.
His eyes dropped. His voice stammered, “I—I
will do my best, Miss Josselin.”
She held out a hand. He took it perforce in
his rope-roughened paw, held it awkwardly for a moment,
and released it as one lets a bird escape.
Ruth smiled. “The best of women,”
ran a saying of Batty Langton’s, “if you
watch ’em, are always practising; even the youngest,
as a kitten plays with a leaf.”
They stood in silence, waiting for the chair to overtake
them.
“Tatty, you are a heroine!”
Miss Quiney, unwinding a shawl from her head under
the hall-lamp, released herself from Ruth’s
embrace. Her nerve had been strained and needed
a recoil.
“Maybe,” she answered snappishly.
“For my part, I’d take more comfort,
just now, to be called a respectable woman.”
Ruth laughed, kissed her again, and stood listening
to the footsteps as they retreated down the gravelled
way. Among them her ear distinguished easily
the firm tread of Mr. Hanmer.
FIRST OFFER.
A little before noon next day word came to her room
that Sir Oliver had called and desired to speak with
her.
She was not unprepared. She had indeed dressed
with special care in the hope of it; but she went
to her glass and stood for a minute or two, touching
here and there her seemly tresses.
Should she keep him waiting—keep him even
a long while? . . . He deserved it. . . .
But ah, no! She was under a vow never to be other
than forthright with him; and the truth was, his coming
filled her with joy.
“I am glad you have come!” These, in
fact, were her first words as he turned to face her
in the drawing-room. He had been standing by
the broad window-seat, staring out on the roses.
“You guess, of course, what has brought me?”
He had dressed himself with extreme care. His
voice was steady, his eye clear, and only a touch
of pallor told of the overnight debauch. “I
am here to be forgiven.”
“Who am I, to forgive?”
“If you say that, you make it three times worse
for me. Whatever you are does not touch my right
to ask your pardon, or my need to be forgiven—which
is absolute.”
“No,” she mused, “you are right.
. . . Have you asked pardon of Tatty?”
“I have, ten minutes ago. She sent the
message to you.”
“Tatty was heroic”—Ruth paused
on the reminiscence with a smile—”
and, if you will believe me, quite waspish when I told
her so.”
“You should have refused to come. You
might have known that I was drunk, or I could never
have sent.”
