"Fib, then. But you should have arrived in time, my poor friend. Last week came the news that Captain Hamilton had been shot on the Kentucky. Boone and Harrod sent a runner with the names of the dead. If you had only been here!—oh dear; poor boy! Pray, follow Mrs. Hamilton to Albany. She talked of nobody but you; she treated Mr. Bevan to one of her best silk mittens—"
"What nonsense is this?" I cried, alarmed. "Does Mrs. Hamilton believe I am in love with her?"
"Believe it? What could anybody believe after you had so coolly compromised her—"
"What?" I stammered.
"You kissed her, didn't you?"
"Who—I?"
"Perhaps I was mistaken; perhaps it was somebody else."
I fairly glared at my tormentor.
"Let me see," said Silver Heels, counting on her fingers. "There were three of us there—Marie Hamilton, I, and Black Betty. Now I'm sure it was not me you kissed, and if it was not Marie Hamilton—why—it was Betty!"