“We will go now,” Kemp said, and opened the door for Ruth to pass before him. She followed him slowly, but on the threshold drew back, a thoughtful little pucker on her brow.
“I think I shall wait anyway,” she explained. “I should like to talk with Bob a little.”
“You had better drive home with me,” he objected.
“Thank you,” she replied, drawing farther back into the room; “but the Jackson Street cars are very convenient.”
“Nevertheless, I should prefer to have you come with me,” he insisted.
“But I do not wish to,” she repeated quietly; “besides, I have decided to stay.”
“That settles it, then,” smiled Kemp; and shaking her hand, he went out alone.
“When my lady will, she will; and when she won’t, she won’t,” he mused, gathering up his reins. But the terminal point to the thought was a smile.
Ruth, thus left alone, seated herself on the one other chair near the foot of the bed. Strange to say, though she gazed at Bob, her thoughts had flown out of the room. She was dimly conscious that she was pleasantly excited. Had she cared to look the cause boldly in the face, she would have known that Miss Ruth Levice’s vanity had been highly fed by Dr. Kemp’s unmistakable desire for her assistance. He must at least have looked at her with friendly eyes; but here her modesty drew a line even for herself, and giving herself a mental shake, she saw that two lambent brown eyes were looking wonderingly at her from the face of the sick lad.
“How do you feel now, Bob?” she asked, rising immediately and smiling down at him.
“The doctor brought me here,” she went on brightly; “but as you were asleep, he could not wait. Are you feeling better, Bob?”
The soft, star-like eyes did not wander in their gaze.
“Why did you come?” he breathed finally. His voice was surprisingly musical.
“Why?” faltered Ruth. “Oh, to bring you these roses. Do you care for flowers, Bob?” She lifted the mass of delicate buds toward him. Two pale, transparent hands went out to meet them. Tenderly as you sometimes see a mother press the cheek of her babe to her own, he drew them to his cheek.
“Oh, my darlings, my darlings!” he murmured passionately, with his lips pressed to the fragrant petals.
“Lady,” replied the boy, raising himself to a sitting posture, “there is nothing in the world to me like flowers.”