Laura Bray ceased speaking; and, starting up, she began to pace the room, but only to stop short on seeing her brother gazing at her with a half-mocking, half-amused expression of countenance from behind the curtain.
“You here, Max!” she exclaimed, colouring hotly.
“Bai Jove, ya-a-as!” he drawled. “But, I say, isn’t it a bad plan to go about the house shouting so that every one can hear your bewailings, because a horsey cad of a fellow gives roses to one lady and thorns to another?”
“What do you mean, Max?” said Laura.
“What do I mean! Well, that’s cool, bai Jove! O, of course nothing about meetings by moonlight alone, and roses and vows, and that sort of spooneyism! But didn’t you come tearing and raving in here, saying that she should go, and that you wouldn’t stand it, and swore—”
“O, Max?” cried Laura passionately.
“Bai Jove! why don’t you let a fellow finish?” drawled Max. “Swore, I said—swore like a cat just going to scratch; and I suppose that you would like to scratch, eh?”
“But, Max, did you really hear what I said?” cried Laura.
“Hear? Bai Jove! of course I did—every word. Couldn’t help it. Good job it was only me.”
“How could you be so unmanly as to listen!” cried Laura.