"Oh, I don't know—I don't know, truly," she sobbed. "It has come within the few weeks, Michael. I am so old, so tired, so strangely ill of I know not what."
"You do know," I said. "Tell me, Silver Heels."
She raised her eyes to me, then closed them. Neck and brow were reddening.
"You are not in love!" I demanded, aghast.
"Ay, sick with it," she said, slowly, with closed lids.
It was horrible, incredible! I attempted to picture Dunmore as an inspirer of love in any woman. The mere idea revolted me. What frightful spell had this shrunken nobleman cast over my little comrade that she should confess her love for him?
And all I could say was: "Oh, Silver Heels! Silver Heels! That man! It is madness!"
"What man?" she asked, opening her eyes.
"What man?" I repeated. "Do you not mean that you love Dunmore?"
She laughed a laugh that frightened me, so mirthless, so bitter, so wickedly bitter it rang in the summer air.