“Rose,” said he at last, “look at me!” Her eyes were raised in instant obedience, eyes deep and dark and heavy-lashed, that met his keen scrutiny unwavering and wholly unabashed.
“You laughed, I think?” he challenged.
“Who—me, sir?” she cried, eyes wider than ever.
“Do any women possess souls, I wonder!” said he bitterly.
“Parson do think so, your honour.”
“Then perchance you may find yours some day, for, until you do, child, you must remain and never know or appreciate the great, good things of life——”
“Tripe an’ pig’s-trotters, John!” exclaimed Sir Hector, bursting in upon them, brandishing a long-handled fork. “Par-boiled, ye ken, an’ crisped in a brisk oven——”
A rush of flying feet; the bang of closing door; a sound of stifled, hysterical laughter.
“Losh, man Jack,” exclaimed Sir Hector, staring into his companion’s scowling visage, “was yon that Rose creature?”
“Yon was!” answered Sir John grimly. “And what then, Hector?”