“No. You fain would marry some one out of hand, because Gillian has fooled you, and you’re longing to show her that you care as little as she.”
“What—who—did she say such a thing, Betty?”
“Nay. Oh, Alick, I must laugh,—you look so red and so befogged!—like the sun rising on a misty morning.”
“Who told you—what puts it in your head that I care for Gillian?”
“I said not you cared for her; I said she’d fooled you; and ’twas mine own eyes and mother wit told me, and no one else. She’s played with you as my Tabby does with a mouse, only at the last she let you slip from under her claws, not quite killed, and you ran to your old gossip to have the wound salved; that’s all!”
“And do you believe it was all put on? Do you truly think she cared nothing at all for me?”
“No more than she did for your brother Josias, or my brothers David and Joseph, or Constant Southworth, or, or—the rest”—
“The rest! Oh, you mean Will Pabodie, don’t you? You’ve noted how of late she’s all eyes and ears for him.”
“Nay, I’ve noted naught.” The words were few and the voice was cold, but something in the tone made Alick Standish look keenly into the face of his old friend. It was scarlet, and the brave brown eyes were full of tears; but as Betty caught his look she returned it with one of right royal defiance.
“Poor David!” said she, steadying her voice with a mighty effort, “he has not got over Tabby’s love-pats yet. He’s worse off than you, Alick. But here we are at home. Come in and have a mug of cider or a noggin of milk after your walk, won’t you, lad?”