"
"Anything else?"
"No,--unless you can think of something."
"And if I do shall I add it?"
"Yes."
"Oh,--then I know exactly what to do,--it will be something like
this: 'Please, Ruth, take care of your precious self, and don't be
worried about me or anything else, and remember that every minute
I am away from you is misery, for I love you to distraction and--
'"
"Oh, Miss Felicia!"
"No--none of your protests, sir!" she laughed. "That is just what
I am going to tell her. And now don't you dare to move till Peter
comes back," and with a toss of her aristocratic head the dear
lady left the room, closing the door behind her.
And so our poor butterfly was left flat against the wall--all his
flights ended. No more roaming over honeysuckles, drinking in the
honey of Ruth's talk; no more soaring up into the blue, the
sunshine of hope dazzling his wings. It made no difference what
Miss Felicia might say to Ruth. It was what she had said to HIM
which made him realize the absurdity of all his hopes.
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