"You didn't have any up before, did you?" he asked innocently.
"By advice of counsel I think I had better not reply, Mr. Portlaw. But I believe that point will be brought out by my lawyers—unless"—with a brilliant smile—"your own counsel sees fit to discuss it."
Portlaw was convinced that his hair was stirring under his cap. He was horribly afraid of the law.
"See here, Alida," he said, assuming the bluff rough-diamond front which the alarm in his eyes made foolish, "I want to settle this little difference and be friends with you again. I was wrong; I admit it.... Of course I might very easily defend such a suit—"
"But, of course"—serenely undeceived—"as you admit you are in the wrong you will scarcely venture to defend such a suit. Your lawyers ought to forbid you to talk about this case, particularly"—with a demure smile—"to the plaintiff."
"Alida," he said, "I am determined to remain your friend. You may do what you will, say what you wish, yes, even use my own words against me, but"—and virtue fairly exuded from every perspiring pore—"I will not retaliate!"
"I'm afraid you can't, William," she said softly.
"Won't you—forgive?" he asked in a melting voice; but his eyes were round with apprehension.
"There are some things that no woman can overlook," she said.
"I'll send my men down to fix that bridge—"