"I am in excellent health, sir."
"Then, my girl, you're in love."
Her confusion answered him. She was angry, indignant, scornful; but she could not prevent the red blood rushing into her cheeks. She retorted sharply:
"That's none of your business, sir!"
Quinney chuckled. A ray of light flashed across his dark horizon.
"Don't be too sure o' that, my dear. Perhaps it is my business; anyway, I'm going to make it my business, because I take a fatherly interest in you."
"I can manage my own affairs, Mr. Quinney."
"No, you can't. Look ye here. I'm a wonderful guesser—always was. You like James Miggott. Nothing to be ashamed of in that. I'll be bound he likes you!"
Mabel fidgeted. Quinney's voice was kind. It rang true. The desire to confide in this odd little man, so masterful, so persuasive when he chose, grew as swiftly as Jack the Giant Killer's beanstalk.
"Doesn't he like you?" he asked insistently.