"A week!" cries his sister, indignantly. "Three weeks, or a month, at least."
"Wrong, Essie, wrong; it was this day fortnight, Ryvel Horse Fair, which was the reason why I had to decline your invitation."
"What does a week one way or another signify?" she cries, becoming irrational, as a worsted woman mostly does.
"Nothing to a woman or a—weathercock."
This last insult is too much for Miss Craven.
"I see you are determined to turn me into ridicule; I see you don't believe me!" she cries, preparing to rush from the room like a tornado.
"My good Essie," says Jack, jumping up, taking her two hands, and manfully repressing his inclination to laugh—"here I am; tell me anything, and I'll swear by the tomb of my grandmother to believe it."
"Why should not I like him? What is there in him so hateful as to make my being fond of him incredible?" asks Essie, unreasonable and sobbing.
"Nothing that I know of—except his boots, and you told me they were—"
"So they are," she says, smiling through her tears—"more than hateful; they haunt one like a bad dream."