He strode beside her, in the gathering gloom, his whole being aching with the desire to comfort her.
"Millie," he said at last, "if—if she does anythin' to yer—if she gets too bad, or lays hands upon yer, you jest come to me, or send for me, won't yer?"
The girl let fall a laugh of such quiet scorn that he felt openly sneered at.
"D'you think I'm afraid of her, then?" she asked.
"No," he said warmly; "you've got the pluck of the—" he checked and almost choked—"the pluck of a dozen. But she's stronger than you."
"Is she?" said Millie drily.
He pondered on that answer.
There spoke the careless insolence of the Briton. He admired it, while he writhed under it; but he understood why it made Tante Wilma want to scratch her eyes out.
They had reached the stoep. Nobody was about. He set down the bucket and faced her squarely.
"Millie," he almost gasped, "look here! Give me a word! You know I'd——"