"No. Like others he has taken the Caughnawaga fever. The very air you breathe is full of it. But, with a man like my comrade, it is no more than a fever. And it passes, pretty maid!—it passes."
"Does it so?"
"It does. It burns out folly and leaves him the healthier."
"Oh, then—with a gentleman like your comrade, Mr. Drogue—l'amour n'est qu'une maladie légère qui se guérira sans médecin, n'est-ce pas?"
"Say that in Canada and doubtless the very dicky-birds will answer wee-wee-wee!" he retorted. "But if you mean, does John Drogue mate below his proper caste, then there's no wee-wee-wee about it; for that the Laird of Northesk will never do!"
"I know that," said she coolly. And opened the pot to fork the steaming stew, then set on the cover and passed her hand over her brow where a slight dew glistened and where her hair curled paler gold and tighter, like a child's.
"Friend Nick?"
"I hear thee, breeder of heart-troubles."
"Listen, then. No thought of me should trouble any man as yet. My heart is not awake—not troublesome,—not engaged,—no, not even to poor Stephen Watts. For the sentiment I entertain for him is only pity for a boy, Nick, who is impetuous and rash and has been too much flattered by the world.... Poor lad—in his play-hour regimentals!—and no beard on his smooth cheek.... Just a fretful, idle, and self-indulgent boy!... Who protests that he loves me.... Oh, no, Nick! Men sometimes bewilder me; but I think it is our own passion that destroys us women—not theirs.... And there is none in me,—only pity, and a great friendliness to men.... And these only have ever moved me."
He was sitting on a pine table and munching of a cruller. "Penelope," says he, "your honesty and wholesome spirit should physic men of their meaner passions. If you are servant to Douw Fonda, nevertheless you think like a great lady. And I for one," he added, munching away, "shall quarrel with any man who makes little of the mistress of Summer House Point!"