“Well, then, I won’t. Oh, dear! that’s a promise, isn’t it? And I protested I wouldn’t. I suppose you’ll think that it is just like a woman. But I’ll never make you another promise—never.”
“Oh, don’t say that, Miss Sartwell. I would promise you anything.”
“Very well. Promise me you will tell my father you were here.”
The girl laughed as she saw his discomfiture when she so promptly took him at his word.
“There,” she cried, gleefully, “you see, you didn’t mean what you said. I really believe you are afraid of my father.”
“I am.”
“That’s very funny. I should like to tell him that. I can’t imagine any one being afraid of him.”
“Perhaps you have never seen him when he is angry.”
“Oh, yes, I have; but I just sit quiet and say nothing. He is never violent, when angry, as some men are, but his eyes half close, and his lips are set tight, and he doesn’t care to be spoken to just then; so that’s why I don’t speak. He was angry with you that night, was he not?”
“What night, Miss Sartwell?” asked Marsten, almost holding his breath. .