“My dear girl, do you want to have your head bitten off for your pains? His temper is positively tremendous. By Jove, I didn't know he had it in him after all these years; I thought he had worn it out on dear Aunt Molly. And Beau, by the way, isn't going to be the only one to suffer for his daring, which makes me wish that he had chosen to embrace the saintly instead of the heroic virtues. I confess that I could find it in my heart to prefer less of David and more of Job.”
“How can you?” remonstrated Betty. She pressed her hands together and looked wistfully up at him. “But what are you going to do about it?” she demanded.
For a moment his eyes dwelt on her.
“Betty, Betty, how you care!” he exclaimed.
“Care?” she laughed impatiently. “Oh, I care, but what good does that do?”
“Would you care as much for me, I wonder?” She smiled up at him and shook her head.
“No, I shouldn't, Champe,” she answered honestly.
He turned his gaze away from her, and looked through the dim old window panes out upon the clustered elm boughs.
“Well, I'll do this much,” he said in a cheerful voice. “I'll ride to the tavern this morning and find out how the land lies there. I'll see Beau, and I'll do my best for him, and for you, Betty.” She put out her hand and touched his arm. “Dear Champe!” she exclaimed impulsively.
“Oh, I dare say,” he scoffed, “but is there any message?”