"There is your mother: she cares."
"Oh, yes, she cares, poor soul, but she cries over my sins instead of fighting them. Fighting is not her métier, you know. Now, you—you fight well."
"That is a compliment, I suppose?" said Janetta, laughing a little and coloring—not with displeasure—at his tone.
"Yes," he said; "I like the fighting spirit."
They had been walking slowly along the path, and now they had reached the gate that opened into the grounds. Here, as he opened it, Janetta hesitated, and then stopped short.
"I think I had better make the best of my way back," she said. "It is getting late."
"Not much after twelve. Are we not friends again?"
"Oh yes."
"And will you think over what I said about my boy?"
"Do you really mean it?"