"I don't know," said Joyce, but in a tone that said she knew very well.
"Well, well, we've all expected it this long while past," said Deb. "I'm glad it's come at last."
She plunged her hands into the dish-tub once more, and looked up with a comical expression of triumph on her ugly old face.
"I don't know what you mean," said Joyce, faintly.
"Oh, don't you?" answered she. "Perhaps Meg does. Eh, do you know, Margaret?"
"I think you had better mind your own business, or talk of things you know something about," said I, tartly.
But Deb only laughed good-humoredly.
"I suppose you make no doubt it's your pretty face the squire's after, eh, Joyce?" persisted she, mercilessly.
Joyce flushed painfully.
"Don't, Deb, don't," said she.