“Oh, somehow,” he laughed carelessly. “I'll live somehow.”
“It's rather a shame, you know,” responded Champe, “but there's one thing of which I am very sure—the old gentleman will come round. We'll make him do it, Aunt Molly and I—and Betty.”
Dan started.
“Betty sent you a message, by the way,” pursued Champe, looking through the window. “It was something about coming home; she says you are to come home now—or when you will.” He rose and took up his hat and riding-whip.
“Or when I will,” said Dan, rising also. “Tell her—no, don't tell her anything—what's the use?”
“She doesn't need telling,” responded Champe, going toward the door; and he added as they went together down the stair, “She always understands without words, somehow.”
Dan followed him into the yard, and watched him, from under the oaks beside the empty stagecoach, as he mounted and rode away.
“For heaven's sake, remember my warning,” said Champe, turning in the saddle, “and don't insist upon eating dry bread if you're offered butter.”
“And you will look after Aunt Molly and Betty?” Dan rejoined.
“Oh, I'll look after them,” replied the other lightly, and rode off at an amble.