"I ain't said he wuz," replied Ned, and——
"He ain't a-runnin' no other," said Watson.
For an instant Ramsey was all pride for him they exalted; but in the next instant a wave of resentment went through her as if their vaunting were his; as if her pride were his own confessed, colossal vanity; as if the price of his uplift were her belittlement. Never mind, he should pay! Absurd, absurd; but she was harrowingly tired, lonely, idle, grief-burdened, and desolate, and absurdity itself was relief. He should pay, let his paying cost her double. Somehow, in some feminine, minute, pinhole way, she would deflate him, wing him, bring him down, before he should soar another round. With old Joy at her feet, in the dusk of her corner beyond Mrs. So-and-so, the parson's wife; she allowed herself a poor, bitter-sweet smile.
Each time when Hugh had come back to the bench, room had been hurriedly made for him next the parson's wife—"stabboard side"—who, speaking for all, promptly began to interrogate him, her first question always being as to his father's condition, which did not improve. Making room on the bench made room in the conversation—decoying pauses hopefully designed to lure him into saying something, anything, to Ramsey, or her to him; but always the kind trap had gone unsprung. Two or three times, obviously, Mrs. So-and-so's inquiries had first been Ramsey's to her; as when one of them elicited the fact that the next turn would be Horseshoe Cut-off and Kangaroo Point; and once, at length, after twice failing to believe the ear she bent to Ramsey's murmur, she said audibly:
"Ask him, dear; ask him yourself."
Every one waited and presently Hugh remarked:
"I'll answer if I can."
"I'd rather," faltered Ramsey, "ask John the Baptist."
The unlucky mention took no evident effect on any one. If that was the snub she would have to try again.
"I can ask him for you," said Hugh. "He's up, expecting to leave us at Helena."