"Nancy has gone."
"Gone! What the Dickens do you mean?—Nancy gone! Gone where?"
"As you were at the marriage, and are altogether behind the scenes, also my first friend here,—I think I may show you her letter," said Mayne, and he handed it across to his gaping vis-à-vis.
Dawson read it with irritating deliberation; going back over sentences, and frowning heavily as he did so. When he came to the end, he looked up and said:
"Nancy was always a queer child, and you will have to let her alone. You couldn't well follow her, and drag her back—could you?"
"I shall not move a finger," said Mayne, with deliberate emphasis.
"It's just like one of her tempers; she'll cool down all right."
"And where do I come in?" inquired Mayne. "She has made a pretty good fool of me!"
"Oh, you'll forgive her some day, for you're a real white man! I'm awfully fond of Nan; she is clean, through and through—couldn't lie if she tried; knows nothing whatever of love; or what's called 'sex,' and that sort of thing. Her heart and soul were given to her Daddy; and now that he is gone, the poor child feels that her life is smashed to bits."
"That's true," assented Mayne, "and I can understand her grief. I have made every allowance, and never intruded on her for a moment. I have not laid eyes on Nancy since the funeral; she has remained shut up in her own room. This," holding up the note, "is the first sign that she has recognized my existence, and it gives me my dismissal, or 'jawaub.'"