“Not the devil’s own; the Lord’s own, Brian. He has not given them up.”
“I think he has—one of them.”
“Which one?”
“The mother, Mrs. Frispi, as she calls herself.”
“We shall see. Zilla’s good fortune may make the mother more kindly disposed toward us. She may allow me to talk to her in time.”
“I wish that you would let her alone,” he said hastily.
“Nay, Brian, I cannot promise you that; and now I must go back to the Pavilion.”
He stood, cap in hand, looking after her as she walked away with a light firm step.
“Very carefully I spread a net for you, beautiful bird,” he muttered enjoyably; “and you slightly tangled your adored feet in it, and after you have fluttered awhile I will set you free. The best of it is you haven’t a suspicion of it. You’re dead in love, beautiful bird, and I’m trying to let you know it,” and he chuckled to himself.
“She’s saintly; very saintly,” he went on, after a time; “makes me feel vicious by comparison. I guess I’ll go to tease Stanton,” and swinging on his heel he walked at a brisk pace along Water Street, grimy, dirty Water Street, smelling of fish and oil and tar, and having more individuality than all the other streets of the town put together.