“Very likely; but we shan’t ‘differ as to what constitutes’ a bad thing for Vernon Brander; and if you don’t see all those twopenny geraniums pulled up out of St. Cuthbert’s churchyard, and every stone grubbed up, and every brick of that old tower pulled down, before another week’s up, my name’s not Fred Williams. There, Miss Denison; now, what do you say to that?”
“I say that you have fully justified your low opinion of yourself.”
“And I’ll justify my low opinion of Vernon Brander. If he’s got any secrets buried in those old stones, we’ll have them dragged out, and make you jolly well ashamed of your friend.”
“Oh, no, you won’t do that,” said Olivia, who had turned pale to the lips, and grown very majestic and stern; “though you have succeeded in making me ashamed of having called you even an acquaintance.”
“Perhaps you have a weakness for—”
Before he could finish his sentence, he found himself seized by the shoulders, and saw towering over him a beautiful countenance, so aglow with passionate indignation that it looked like the face of a Fury.
“If you dare to say that word I’ll shake you like a rat!” hissed out Olivia, giving him an earnest of her promise with great good will.
“Stop! stop! unless you—want—to—kill somebody—to be more—like—your—precious—friend,” panted Fred, who was not a coward.
Olivia let him go with a movement which sent him spinning among the chickens.
“Well, that’s cool,” panted he, as he picked up his hat and looked at it ruefully. “You talk about refinement one minute and the next you treat me in this unladylike way!”