He walked her home. Lucy had been ignoring her, not purposefully, but noticeably. “Lucy. "Miss Enschede, you're seven kinds of a brick!" "A brick?" He chuckled. Many’s the young ’un I’ve seen get hisself into just such a knuckleheaded mess all on account of a pretty wench. I am a single man, and——” “Thank you,” she interrupted. Her defence ceased rapidly to be in any sense ladylike, and became vigorous and effective; a strand of black hair that had escaped its hairpins came athwart Ramage’s eyes, and then the knuckles of a small but very hardly clinched fist had thrust itself with extreme effectiveness and painfulness under his jawbone and ear. Practically. Oh, yes; of Ruth herself he knew much; but the more he mulled over what he knew, the deeper grew his chagrin. I just suppose it isn’t worth the trouble.
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