“What do I care,” retorted Andrew. “As long as he speaks to me with proper respect, I’m glad enough to leave him to himself. Of course, if he ever attempted”—this with an aggravating look at Gaston—“if he ever attempted to touch me—”
“Touch you,” echoed Gaston, with a whole world of loathing in his tone, “ugh! I would as soon touch a creeping, crawling serpent. Ah, no, I do mean rather a maggot; you are not grand enough to be a serpent, make no doubt about that.”
“That small boy hates you, and no mistake, Andrew,” said Jack, as Gaston was turning away.
“Yes,” said Gaston, looking back, “that is true, I hate him.”
“He’s very welcome to hate me, if he likes,” said Andrew. “I don’t worship him, so there’s no love lost between us.”
“Still, I shouldn’t like to be spoken of in that way,” said Phoena, “ ’specially by someone to whom I’d not been particularly kind.”
“Perhaps not,” said Andrew. “For myself, I can’t imagine that the affection of a French frog could be of any great value.”
“It isn’t exactly that,” said Phoena, “but I should hate to be despised as Gaston despises you.”
“Well, I call that a good notion,” cried Andrew, flushing scarlet with indignation. “The idea of a miserable little under-done ‘parley-vous’ despising me, me! You are a green goose, Phoena.”
“All the same, there’s a deal in what Phoena says,” said Jack; “anyway, I’m glad Gaston doesn’t speak like that of me.”