“How is young Breen?” Miss Felicia asked in a whisper, closing the door behind her. She had put Ruth to bed, where she had again given way to an uncontrollable fit of weeping.
“Pretty weak. The doctor is with him now.”
“What did the fool get up for?” She did not mean to surrender too quickly about Jack despite his heroism—not to Peter, at any rate. Then, again, she half suspected that Ruth's tears were equally divided between the rescuer and the rescued.
“He couldn't help it, I suppose,” answered Peter, with a gleam in his eyes—“he was born that way.”
“Born! What stuff, Peter—no man of any common-sense would have—”
“I quite agree with you, my dear—no man except a gentleman. There is no telling what one of that kind might do under such circumstances.” And with a wave of his hand and a twinkle in his merry scotch-terrier eyes, the old fellow disappeared below the handrail.
Miss Felicia leaned over the banisters:
“Peter, PETER,” she called after him, “where are you going?”
“To stay all night with Jack.”
“Well, that's the most sensible thing I have heard of yet. Will you take him a message from me?”