She was picturing the gallant appearance the young Sophomore from Yale, away off in the gorgeous fashionable East, would make as he came in at that gate yonder and up the walk and seated himself on the veranda--with Susan! Evidently her mother had failed; Susan was not to be taken away.
When Warham departed down the walk Ruth rose; she could not bear being alone with her triumphant rival--triumphant because unconscious.

She knew that to get Sam to herself all she would have to do would be to hint to Susan, the generous, what she wanted.

But pride forbade that.

As her hand was on the knob of the screen door, Susan said: "Why don't you like Sam ?" "Oh, I think he's stuck-up.

He's been spoiled in the East." "Why, I don't see any sign of it." "You were too flattered by his talking to you," said Ruth, with a sweet-sour little laugh--an asp of a sneer hid in a basket of flowers.
Susan felt the sting; but, seeing only the flowers, did not dream whence it had come.