"Do you suppose such young men care!" I said sullenly.
But she seemed so white and distressed at the thought that the sneer died on my lips and I made a great effort to do generously by my old school-mate, Stevie Watts.
"Surely," said I, "he meant no disrespect and no harm. Stephen Watts is not of the corrupt breed of Walter Butler nor debauched like Sir John.... However, if he is to be your lover—perhaps it were convenient to ask him something concerning his respectful designs upon you."
"Yes, sir, I shall do so—if he comes hither again."
So hope, which had fallen a-flickering, expired like a tiny flame. She loved Steve Watts!
I turned and limped up the stairway.
And, at the stair-head, met Nick.
"Well," said I savagely, "you may not have her. For she loves Steve Watts and dotes on his picture in her bosom. And as for you, you may go to the devil!"
"Why, you sorry ass," says he, "have you thought I desired her?"
"Do you not?"