"I couldn' help his goin', could I?" muttered 'Bias, but his eyes were uneasy under the wrath in hers.
"You couldn' help it?" she echoed in scorn, and pointed to the figure on the bed. "Here you come playin' the Early Christian over a man that, for aught you knew, had robbed you to a stair: and when 'tis your tried friend fetchin' back riches to you—fairly bringin' you back to life at the cost o' bein' a beggar hisself—you let him go without so much as a thank'ee!"
"Cai Hocken don't want my thanks."
"Didn't even want politeness, I suppose—after runnin' here hot foot with the news that made you rich an' him a poor man! Oh, you're past all patience! . . . Who should know what he wanted an' didn't get— I, that had my eyes on his face, or you, that sat like a stuck pig, glowerin' at the carpet?"
"Gently, missy! . . . There—there didn' seem anything to say."
"There was one thing to say," answered the girl sternly, "and there's one thing to be done."
"What's that?"
"It mayn't be an easy thing, altogether. But you'll be glad of it afterwards, and you may as well make up your mind to it."
"Out with it!"
"Mrs Bosenna—Why, what's the matter?"—for 'Bias had interrupted with a short laugh.