“What friend of mine should be in any Logie field?” she asked.
“Aye, deny your own. It’s like you, Nita. Won’t you go and have a look at the man?”
“Why should I go?”
“He’s not much to look at, I own—but he died running an errand of yours. He sent a queer sort of cry up when the snow took him—cursed Nita Langrish for sending him to Logie—so that you must have heard it out to Garsykes, I’d have fancied.”
Nita faced her ancient adversary with cool devilry.
“I’m sorry he died before he fired Logie. He was always a fool, and clumsy.”
“You dare own to it?” snapped Rebecca.
The girl was uncanny in her self-assurance, her eager beauty. “Yes,” she said. “What has Nita the basket-weaver to fear, when all the men go daft about her?”
Rebecca reached a lean hand out across the gate—swift as Jonah the cat might have flicked a paw—but Nita was too quick for her. She drew back from all life’s onsets, with soft, elusive speed.
“All the men but one,” laughed Nita, from the middle of the roadway.