Roy disdained the interruption:
“And yet,” he continued, energetically, “there are women, good women, mind you, who give away soup, but look like frumps, and actually believe that they are doing their duty. Why, sirs, they minister to the bellies of a dozen, perhaps, while they shock the finest sensibilities of the souls of a thousand who have to look at ’em. And they believe that they have done their duty. It’s shameful. Are bellies more than souls?”
The thoughts of Saxe were busy with the other of the two girls, Margaret West; and now he spoke of her, reverting to Roy’s diatribe concerning the chief duty of women.
“Margaret West certainly fulfills all her obligation,” he observed. There was a quality of repressed admiration in his voice, which set the observant David to thinking. “She is beautiful at all times. It’s a delight to look at her.”
The others nodded agreement, but, in the same moment, Roy grinned sardonically.
“Beware!” he advised, mockingly. “Remember that that girl, so young and seemingly so innocent, is your deadly enemy. Don’t let the spell of her loveliness lull you into a fancied security, in which you may be caught off guard. Again, I bid you beware.”
“What on earth are you raving about?” Saxe demanded, in genuine astonishment, “but you’re merely joking, of course—though I must say that I don’t exactly see the humor.”
“Perhaps my language was a trifle extravagant,” Roy conceded; “but as to the essential fact, why, I stand by what I said. Margaret West is, naturally, your enemy. There can’t be a shadow of doubt as to that.”
“Margaret West my enemy!” the incredulous Saxe repeated, in a voice that was indignant. “Why, man, the idea’s absurd.”
Roy wagged his head, sapiently.