Ruddiman's activity behind the
bar. The under-master himself was in an uneasy frame of mind. When Miss
Fouracres' aunt had gone, he paced for an hour or two about the garden; the
hostess was serving cyclists. At length the familiar voice called to him.
'Will you have your dinner, Mr. Ruddiman?'
He went in, and, before entering the parlour, stood looking at a cask of
ale which had been tilted forward.
'We must tap the new cask,' he remarked.
'Yes, sir, I suppose we must,' replied his hostess, half absently.
'I'll do it at once. Some more cyclists might come.'
For the rest of the day they saw very little of each other. Mr. Ruddiman
rambled musing. When he came at the usual hour to supper, guests were
occupying the hostess. Having eaten, he went out to smoke his pipe in the
garden, and lingered there--it being a fine, warm night--till after ten
o'clock. Miss Fouracres' voice aroused him from a fit of abstraction.
'I've just locked up, sir.'
'Ah! Yes. It's late.'
They stood a few paces apart. Mr. Ruddiman had one hand in his waistcoat
pocket, the other behind his back; Miss Fouracres was fingering her chin.
'I've been wondering,' said the under-master in a diffident voice, 'how
you'll manage all alone, Miss Fouracres.
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