He wagged a broad forefinger. "Even a heathen tribe has its customs. Any customs better than none! Ye can't go against the custom of the tribe for nothing. I speak as heathen to heathen."
"Can't customs ever be changed?" Winnie was back at her old point.
"You're not strong enough for the job, Mrs. Maxon." His voice was full of pity.
But Winnie was in no mood to accept pity. "You call me a heathen. Suppose it was A.D. 50 or 100, and not A.D. 1909. I think you'd be a heathen, and I—well, at any rate I should be trying to screw up my courage to be a Christian martyr."
He acknowledged a hit. "Oh, you're all very clever!" he grumbled. "I'll bet Stephen taught you that. That's from his mint, if I know the stamp! Take it as you say then—are you looking forward to your martyrdom?"
Perhaps she was, and in what must be admitted to be the proper spirit—thinking more of the crown than of the stake. "I don't look very unhappy, do I?" she asked radiantly.
"Going off with him to-day, are you?" She nodded gaily. The natural man suddenly asserted itself in Dennehy. He smiled. "It's more than the young dog deserves, sure it is!"
"Oh, well, you're being a heathen now!" laughed Winnie, distinctly well-pleased.
"I'm wondering what Mrs. Lenoir will say about it."
Winnie's pleasure suffered a slight jar.