Winthrope cringed back, and broke into a childish whine. “Don’t–don’t do it, Blake–Oh, I say, Miss Genevieve, how can you stand by and see him abuse me like this?”
Blake was grinning as he turned to Miss Leslie. Her face was flushed and downcast with humiliation for her friend. It seemed incredible that a man of his breeding should betray such weakness. A quick change came over Blake’s face.
“Look here,” he muttered, “I guess I’m enough of a sport to know something about fair play. Win’s coming down with the fever, and’s no more to blame for doing the baby act than he’ll be when he gets the delirium, and gabbles.”
“I will thank you to attend to your own affairs,” said Winthrope.
“You’re entirely welcome. It’s what I’m doing.– Do you understand, Miss Jenny?”
“Indeed, yes; and I wish to thank you. I have noticed how patient you have been–”
“Pardon me, Miss Leslie,” rasped Winthrope. “Can you not see that for a fellow of this class to talk of fair play and patience is the height of impertinence? In England, now, such insufferable impudence–”
“That’ll do,” broke in Blake. “It’s time for us to trot along.”
“But, Mr. Blake, if he is ill–”
“Just the reason why he should keep moving. No more of your gab, Win! Give your jaw a lay-off, and try wiggling your legs instead.”