“Well, that’s odd, ma’am,” drawled Linton.
“What is?”
“That I feel the same way about the cuss.”
She looked keenly at him, saw the dancing, wayward gleam in his eyes, and gave him a reproachful glance.
“You’ve been pumping me, Linton,” she charged.
“Well,” he defended; “he’s my friend, ma’am; an’ I was sure worried, thinkin’ you wouldn’t take him—if he offered himself.”
She smiled, wisely.
“He did that long ago, Linton—right after he—well, the day he got up, after the doctor told him he could.”
“That he could offer himself?”
“That he could get up. Linton,” she said, severely; “you want to know too much.”