“You don’t want him to marry her,” said Abel, staring, and utilising the time by stropping his knife on his boot.
“Nay, I can do what she wants, I will as long as I live.”
“Ah! you always was fond of her, Bart,” said Abel, slowly.
“Ay, I always was, and always shall be, my lad. But look here,” whispered Bart, leaning towards his companion; “if he says he won’t marry her—”
“Ah! suppose he says he won’t!” said Abel to fill up a pause, for Bart stood staring at him.
“If he says he won’t, and goes and marries that fine madam—will you do it?”
“I’ll do anything you’ll do, mate,” said Abel in a low voice.
“Then we’ll make him, my lad.”
“Hist!” whispered Abel, as the inner door opened, and Mary entered the room, looking haggard and wild, to gaze sharply from one to the other, as if she suspected that they had been making her the subject of their conversation.
“How do, Mary?” said Bart, in a consciously awkward fashion.