“Oh, trying to put more of the too late drag on the coach that is whirling down the hill to its final crash.”
“No—no. Don’t talk despondently,” she said. “I want to think of you as strong—and despondency is not strength. You have me and I have you, does that count for nothing?”
“Good Lord, but you make me feel mean. Come now, we’ll throw off this gloomy talk,” with a sudden brightening that was not all forced, so stimulating was the effect of her presence, so soothing that of her love-modulated voice.
“That’s right. Now, what have you been doing with yourself?”
“The latest is that I had a sort of adventure this morning. I caught Sixpence ‘slaag-ing,’ caught him red-handed. There was another schelm in it with him.” And he told her the whole incident.
The colour heightened in her cheeks as she listened, and her eyes were opened wide upon his.
“But they would have killed you, the wretches,” she exclaimed.
“Such was their amiable intent. I believe it will take even Sixpence’s thick skull some little while to get over that stone I let him have.”
“Pity you didn’t kill him,” said the girl, fiercely; and meaning it too.
“No, dearest. Think again. Are times not hard enough in all conscience, without having to meet the costs of a trial for manslaughter, for that’s about what it would have meant. What? ‘Self defence?’ That might not have counted. There were no witnesses, and they’d have tried to make out I did it because I was mad with him for ‘slaag-ing.’”