George Vine looked up at him with an air of mild reproof.
“All tears and doldrums one day; high jinks and coquetry the next. Marry, and forget all about you in a week.”
“Luke, my dear brother, you do not mean this.”
“Don’t soap, George. I hate to be called my dear brother. Now, do I look like a dear brother?”
“I shall never forget your goodness to us over our terrible trouble.”
“Will you be quiet? Hang it all, George! don’t be such an idiot. Let the past be. The poor foolish boy is dead; let him rest. Don’t be for ever digging up the old sorrow, to brood over it and try to hatch fresh. The eggs may not be addled, and you might be successful. Plenty of trouble without making more.”
“I do not wish to make more, Luke; but you hurt me when you speak so lightly of Louise.”
“A jade! I hate her.”
“No, you do not.”
“Yes, I do. Here’s Duncan Leslie, as good a fellow as ever stepped, who has stuck to her through thick and thin, in spite of my lady’s powder, and fan, and her insults.”