"What do you mean, Cale?" I asked, trying to make him speak Mr. Ewart's name.
"Mean? Marcia Farrell, you know what I mean. Ain't you got a woman's heart beatin' somewhere in your bosom?"
"Oh, Cale, don't!"
"I 've got to, Marcia; you 've got to see things different, or you 'll rue the day you ever blinded yourself to facts."
"Is Mr. Ewart ill?"
"Ill?" There was a curious twitch to his mouth as he repeated that word. "Wal, it depends on what you call 'ill'. That's a pretty mild word for some sorts of diseases—"
"Oh, Cale, tell me quick—don't keep me waiting any longer—"
"Any longer for what?"
"You know, Cale, I want to hear of him—know about him—"
"Oh, you do, do you? Wal, it 's pretty late in the day for you to show some feelin'. Look here, Marcia, I ain't goin' to meddle. I meddled once thirty years ago when I tried to persuade your mother she loved George Jackson, an' I 've lived to curse the day I did it. I ain't goin' to fall inter the same trap this time, you bet yer life on thet; but I 'm goin' to speak my mind 'fore I leave you here. Will you answer me one plain question, an' answer it straight?"