"Taller, yes," he admitted judiciously. "But he isn't half so big around."
Sarah sat, fork poised, and gazed at him.
"Not half so big as who?" she neglected her sentence structure.
"Why—Dexter!" said Caleb. "Isn't that what we were talking about?"
"Maybe you were," Miss Sarah sniffed. "But I was not discussing Dexter's height or girth either. I was referring to his daughter and—and our boy, Stephen. I was going to ask you if you thought she could be entirely disinterested in him. I don't believe any woman forgets a man who has ever thought enough of her to fight for her."
"I suppose not," agreed Caleb humbly.
"And I was wondering, if that argument ever came up again—I'm wondering if Archibald Wickersham wouldn't come out second best, just as he did before?"
Then her brother understood. He threw back his head and laughed until Sarah's face registered a trace of vexation.
"Sarah," he saluted her, "I'm a mere babe in arms when it comes to finesse, in comparison with you. But since you have introduced the subject I might remark that there are two individuals to be considered. Maybe she might be—interested—as you so delicately phrase it. But the boy—well, he's had one mighty pointed lesson, you know."
But there was no mirth in Sarah's eyes. She was most serious.