"But Launce, is it safe as things are now?"
"Safe or not, I choose to take it," he says coldly.
"But Mr. Hunter was saying only to-day that you are too venturesome."
"Mr. Hunter is an Englishman and, if he is not misjudged, a spy; it is only natural he should think so."
"A spy?" she repeats, paling a little and looking at him—she has risen, and is standing with him before the open window—with eager, questioning eyes. "Who says he is a spy?"
"More people than I could name are of that opinion."
"But do you think he is a spy, Launce?"
"Faith, I neither know nor care what he is! He is not a gentleman!
Anyone could see that with half an eye!"
She turns from him with a little passionate gesture, and her face—though he cannot see it—looks for an instant almost cruel in its anger.
"You are so fastidious, dear. We cannot all be Blakes of Donaghmore, you know."