"Why, he'll enjoy the situation," said the lady, laughing. "As you Georgians say, he'll be tickled to death."
Silas regarded her with astonishment, his hands clenched and his thin lips pressed together. "Do you think, Madam, that it is a matter for a joke? You women——"
"Can't I have my own views? You have yours, and I make no objection."
"But think of what a serious matter it is to me. Do you realise that there is nothing but a whim betwixt me and disgrace—betwixt Paul and disgrace?"
"A whim? Why, you are another Daniel O'Connell! Call me a hyperbole, a rectangled triangle, a parenthesis, or a hyphen." She was laughing, and yet it was plain to be seen that she had no relish for the term which Silas had unintentionally applied to her.
"I meant to say that if the notion seized you, you would fetch us down as a hunter bags a brace of doves."
"Doves!" exclaimed Mrs. Claiborne, with a comical lift of the eyebrows.
"Buzzards, then!" said Silas with some heat.
"Oh, you overdo everything," laughed the lady.
"Well, there's nobody hurt but me," was Silas's gruff reply.