"He once asked you to be his wife."
Nanty dropped her spoon with a clatter.
"Did he tell you?"
"Of course not," I laughed, and hugged Jumbles who lay on the couch beside me. "I knew by your face, Nanty, dear. Why didn't you accept him?"
"Because I was a fool." She spoke bitterly. "I should have been happy with that man. As it was, he—grew fond of Amabella. Didn't he?" She turned on me with a pounce.
"I—I think so," I stammered; "but I don't suppose he ever loved her as much as he loved you. I should fancy from her name she was a bit—pussy-catty."
Nanty smiled a little grimly.
"Men like domestic, sit-by-the-hearth women. I feel sure Amabella mended his socks regularly and brushed his clothes."
"They wanted brushing the other day," I said reflectively, "and his boots were miles too big for him—they were like canoes." And I went on to relate where we had met him, what he had had for his dinner, and how he was coming to call upon us in his balloon.
"It is a dangerous game," said Nanty crossly as she rose to go.