“Mr. Stirling, I asked you if you could let me have some gas. If you can, well and good. If not, we are only delaying you unnecessarily.”
Uncle Wellington was in a horrible dilemma. To give gas to this shameless pair! But not to give it to them! To go away and leave them there in the Mistawis woods—until daylight, likely. It was better to give it to them and let them get out of sight before any one else saw them.
“Got anything to get gas in?” he grunted surlily.
Barney produced a two-gallon measure from Lady Jane. The two men went to the rear of the Stirling car and began manipulating the tap. Valancy stole sly glances at Olive over the collar of Barney’s coat. Olive was sitting grimly staring straight ahead with an outraged expression. She did not mean to take any notice of Valancy. Olive had her own secret reasons for feeling outraged. Cecil had been in Deerwood lately and of course had heard all about Valancy. He agreed that her mind was deranged and was exceedingly anxious to find out whence the derangement had been inherited. It was a serious thing to have in the family—a very serious thing. One had to think of one’s—descendants.
“She got it from the Wansbarras,” said Olive positively. “There’s nothing like that in the Stirlings—nothing!”
“I hope not—I certainly hope not,” Cecil had responded dubiously. “But then—to go out as a servant—for that is what it practically amounts to. Your cousin!”
Poor Olive felt the implication. The Port Lawrence Prices were not accustomed to ally themselves with families whose members “worked out.”
Valancy could not resist temptation. She leaned forward.
“Olive, does it hurt?”
Olive bit—stiffly.