“I haven’t laughed for years,” she said, “not since I was a girl.”
“Oh, you’re nothing more than a girl now.”
“I’m afraid I act like it,” she replied, flushing slightly, and that evidently not from displeasure. “You are mistaken about Mr. Nicholson being in New York. Did you see that white yacht in front of my house?”
“Yes.”
“Well, it belongs to Mr. Nicholson.”
“Is he your guest?” asked John, the light of battle coming into his eyes.
“No, he is in Duluth. He went there a few days ago in his yacht, and sent the vessel back, in case I should wish a sail on the lake. Shall I arrange a meeting between you?”
“I suppose you will not credit me, Miss Berrington, when I tell you that I do not wish to meet Mr. Nicholson, and it is not cowardice which keeps me from the encounter. If I met him, I should kill him; then the law would hang me, and I have no desire to be executed.”
“Oh, you are quite safe in Michigan,” said the girl encouragingly; “there is no capital punishment in this State.”
“I had forgotten about that, if I ever knew it. You see, I live in Illinois, and Nicholson lives in New York. In the one State they hang, and in the other they electrocute. It may be weak in me, but I shrink from either of those ordeals, much as I detest Nicholson.”