Dic laughed, very much pleased with his friend's comments upon Rita. "I believe you are in love with her yourself."
The shaft unintentionally struck centre and Billy's scalp blushed as he haltingly remarked, "Well, I suppose you're right." Then after a long pause—"Maxwelton's braes, um, um, um." Another long pause ensued, during which Billy knocked the ashes from his pipe against the wall of the fireplace, poked the back-log, and threw on two or three large pieces of wood.
"I don't mind telling you," he said, chuckling with laughter, "that I was almost in love with her at one time. She was so perfect—had the same name, face, and disposition of—of another that—Jove! I was terribly jealous of you."
"Nonsense," answered Dic, with a great pleased laugh.
"Of course it was nonsense. I knew it then and know it now; but when, let me ask you, had nonsense or any other kind of sense anything to do with a man falling in love?"
"I think it the most sensible thing a man can do," answered Dic, out of the fulness of his cup of youth.
"Has it made you happy?"
"Yes, and no."
"But mostly no?" responded the cynic.
"Yes, Billy Little, so far it's been mostly no; but the time will come when I will be very happy because of it."