"Oh," she faltered, "I--I beg your pardon; I had forgotten you were not
Louis."
"I do not mind in the least," he assured her easily.
The last act passes merrily and quickly; only the severe, great things of
life move slowly.
As the doctor and Ruth made their way through the crowded lobby, the latter
thought she had never seen so many acquaintances, each of whom turned an
interested look at her stalwart escort. Of this she was perfectly aware,
but the same human interest with which Kemp's acquaintances regarded her
passed by her unnoticed.
A moment later they were in the fresh, open air.
"How beautiful it is!" said Ruth, looking up at the stars. "The wind has
entirely died away."
"'On such a night,'" quoth Kemp, as they approached the curb, "a closed
carriage seems out of season."
"And reason," supplemented Ruth, while the doctor opened the door rather
slowly. She glanced at him hesitatingly.
"Would you--" she began.
"Right! I would!" The door was banged to.
"John," he said, looking up at his man in the box, "take this trap round to
the stable; I shall not need the horses again to-night."
John touched his hat, and Kemp drew his companion's little hand through his
arm.
"Well," he said, as they turned the corner, "Were you satisfied with the
great man to-night?"
"Yes," she replied meditatively, "fully; there was no exaggeration, --it
was all quite natural.
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