"I hear you," said I, coldly. "You didn't get your orders from me. I think your proper place is in the woods. You go tell Madame what you've just told me—or should you like me to warn her that you're subject to rabies?"
"For the love of Mike, parson! Have a heart! Haven't I got troubles enough?" he asked bitterly.
"You are behaving more like an unspanked brat than a grown man."
"I wasn't weaned on teaparties," said he, sulkily, "and it oughtn't to be expected I can swallow 'em at sight without making a face and—"
"Whining," I finished for him. And I added, with a reminiscent air: "Rule 1: Can the Squeal!"
He glared at me, but as I met the glare unruffled, his lip presently twisted into a grin of desperate humor. His shoulders squared.
"All right," said he, resignedly. And after an interval of dejected silence, he remarked: "I've sort of got a glimmer of how Madame feels about this. She generally knows what's what, Madame does, and I haven't seen her make a mistake yet. If she thinks it's my turn to come on in and take a hand in any game she's playing, why, I guess I'd better play up to her lead the best I know how ... and trust God to slip me over an ace or two when I need them. You tell her she can depend on me not to fall down on her ... and Miss Eustis."
"No need to tell Madame what she already knows."
"Huh!" With his chin in his hand and his head bent, he stared out over the autumn garden with eyes which did not see its flaming flowers. Of a sudden his shoulders twitched; he laughed aloud.
"What are you laughing at?" I was startled out of a revery of my own.