“Perhaps. Good-bye.”
“You won’t punish me by declining to speak to me?”
“We aren’t likely to meet. Your friends don’t know me.”
“We shall meet, if you allow it. Will you?”
“Will I, now?” said Dolly. She went and threw open the door. “Good-morning.”
Farquhar pleaded, but his words were wasted. Not a word more would Miss Fane say, and at last he took up his hat and walked out.
When she had watched him out of sight, Dolly went bareheaded across the lawn to a tool-shed under the trees, round which circled a numerous company of dogs, ranging from a smart terrier up to a huge grave brute, half bloodhound, half Great Dane, of the breed which Virginian planters used in the good old days for tracking down their runaway slaves. Within, Dolly found the tall young fellow whom she had pointed out to Farquhar. He was darker than his sister, and not so handsome, but the two were plainly slips of the same tree. Bernard’s manners needed attention. When his sister appeared he did not lay down his saw, which produced an ear-piercing rasping and ratching such as denied conversation. Dolly put her hand on his and arrested his work by force.
“Well, what did that chap Farquhar want?” asked Bernard, without resentment.
Dolly related Farquhar’s doings at Burnt House, and the sequel. Bernard’s comment was: “I guess he must be an ass,” and he took up his saw to resume work, but was once more summarily stopped by his sister. These incidents were stages in the conversation; as people of quick wits often do when they live together, these two were in the habit of expressing themselves by signs.
“He’s going to pay the difference himself, and not let father know,” Dolly explained.