"No, he hardly spoke to me."
"Well, he's a very good sort; you would like him if you got to know him. The new chum with the eye-glasses is all right, too. I don't believe those two were to blame. As for Mr. Sanderson, I wouldn't think any more about him if I were you; he really isn't worth it."
"I forgive him," said the musician, simply; "but I shall never forgive myself for playing the fool and losing my temper!"
"Nonsense! It did them good, and they'll think all the more of you. Still, I must say I'm glad you didn't dash the kerosene lamp in Mr. Sanderson's face!"
"The what?" cried Engelhardt, in horror.
"The lamp; you were brandishing it over your head when I came in."
"The lamp! To think that I caught up the lamp! I can't have known what I was doing!"
He stood still and aghast in the sandy yard; they had wandered to the far side of it, where the kitchen and the laundry stood cheek-by-jowl with the wood-heap between them, and their back-walls to the six-wire fence dividing the yard from the plantation of young pines which bordered it upon three sides.
"You were in a passion," said Miss Pryse, smiling gravely. "There's nothing in this world that I admire more than a passion—it's so uncommon. So are you! There, I owed you a pretty speech, you know! Do you mind giving me your arm, Mr. Engelhardt?"