“You have been—going a little with some one else, haven't you?” Jerome asked, hoarsely.
Lawrence stared. “What do you mean?”
“I—saw you riding—”
“Oh,” said Lawrence, laughing, “you mean I've been horseback-riding with Lucina Merritt. That was nothing.”
“It wasn't nothing if she thought it was something,” Jerome said, with a flash of white face and black eyes at the other.
Lawrence looked wonderingly at him, laughed first, then responded with some indignation, “Good Lord, Jerome, what are you talking about?”
“What I mean. My sister doesn't marry any man over another woman's heart if I know it.”
“Good Lord!” said Lawrence. “Why, Jerome, do you suppose I'd hurt little Lucina? She doesn't care for me in that way, she never would. And as for me—why, look here, Jerome, I never so much as held her hand. I never looked at her even, in any way—” Lawrence shook his head in emphatic reiteration of denial.
“I might as well tell you that Lucina was the one I meant when I said father would like others better,” continued Lawrence, “but Lucina Merritt would never care anything about me, even if I did about her, and I never could. Handsome as she is, and I do believe she's the greatest beauty in the whole county, she hasn't the taking way with her that Elmira has—you must see that yourself, Jerome.”
Jerome laughed awkwardly. Nobody knew how much joy those words of Lawrence Prescott's gave him, and how hard he tried to check the joy, because it should not matter to him except for Elmira's sake.