At last he came by the window with a long pendant of honeysuckle trailing from his boot.
“Mr. Turner,” I said, laughing softly as he came up.
“Oh, you can be amused—easily amused—children always are!” he exclaimed savagely. “Now can you see what mischief that ride has done? Sit and laugh, truly—but what am I to do?”
“Lady Catherine says you must get married,” I answered, mischievously, for rage, instead of appalling, was invariably sure to amuse me.
“Married!” almost shrieked the old man, “and so you have brought me to that, you—you!”
The contortions of his face were too droll. I could not keep from laughing again.
“Zana,” said the old man, and tears absolutely stood in his eyes, “I was good to you—I loved you—what right had you to bring this misfortune on me? I knew that evil would come of it when I found Jupiter’s stall empty; but marriage, oh, I did not dream of that calamity.”
“And is marriage always a calamity?” I inquired, sobered by his evident feeling.
“Yes!”
He hissed forth the monosyllable as if it had been a drop of poison that burned his tongue.