“Mine! what, Lora? Yonder black beaver and plumes? What have I to do with them?”
“Ah! Marion, you mock me. Look under the plumes. What see you there?”
“Something that looks like a lady’s glove. Is it one, I wonder?”
“It is, Marion.”
“So it is, in troth! This strange gentleman must have a mistress, then. Who would have thought of it?”
“It is yours, cousin.”
“Mine? My glove—do you mean? You are jesting, little Lora?”
“It is you who jest, Marion. Did you not tell me that you had lost your glove?”
“I did. I dropped it. I must have dropped it—somewhere.”
“Then the gentleman must have picked it up?” rejoined Lora, with significant emphasis.