“I say,” said the younger of the pair merrily, after imitating his companion’s glances at the doors, “you must not talk like that here.”
“Talk like what?” said the elder haughtily.
“Calling things Dutch, and about Saint Germains. I say, isn’t that high treason?”
“Pooh!—Well, yes, I suppose you’re right. Your turn now. But we won’t quarrel, Franky.”
“Then, don’t call me that,” said the boy sharply; “Frank, if you like. I did begin calling you Drew. It’s shorter and better than Andrew. I say, I am ever so much obliged to you.”
“Don’t mention it. I promised Sir Robert I would look after you.”
“Yes, my father told me.”
“And I like Lady Gowan. She’s as nice as she is handsome. My mother was something like her.”
“Then she must have been one of the dearest, sweetest, and best ladies that ever lived,” cried the boy warmly.
“Thank ye, Frank,” said the youth, smiling and laying his arm in rather an affected manner upon the speaker’s shoulder, as he crossed his legs and again posed himself with his left hand upon his sword hilt. But there was no affectation in the tone of the thanks expressed; in fact, there was a peculiar quiver in his voice and a slight huskiness of which he was self-conscious, and he hurriedly continued: