"You have asked me that befo', Honey-bird."
"Yes, dear. . . . You know it is not impertinent curiosity——"
"I know what it is, Honey-bee. But you can not he'p this gentleman and myse'f to any ground of common understanding."
"I am so sorry," sighed Ailsa, resting her folded hands on her work and gazing through the open window.
Celia continued to sew without glancing up. Presently she said:
"I reckon I'll have to tell you something about Colonel Arran after all. I've meant to for some time past. Because—because my silence condemns him utterly; and that is not altogether just." She bent lower over her work; her needle travelled more slowly as she went on speaking:
"In my country, when a gentleman considers himse'f aggrieved, he asks fo' that satisfaction which is due to a man of his quality. . . . But Colonel Arran did not ask. And when it was offered, he refused." Her lips curled. "He cited the Law," she said with infinite contempt.
"But Colonel Arran is not a Southerner," observed Ailsa quietly.
"You know how all Northerners feel——"
"It happened befo' you were born, Honey-bud. Even the No'th recognised the code then."
"Is that why you dislike Colonel Arran? Because he refused to challenge or be challenged when the law of the land forbade private murder?"