“I offered to educate her, to send her to school, to work for her,” he said. “She only looked at me out of those sea-blue eyes—you know how the little witch can look you through and through—and then—and then she walked away into the torch-glare, clasping her cat to her breast, and I saw her strike a fool of a soldier who pretended to stop her! Scarlett, she was a strange child—proud and dainty, too, with all her rags—you remember—a strange, sweet child—almost a woman, at times, and—I thought her loyal—”
He walked to the window and stared moodily at the sea.
“Meanwhile,” I said, quietly, “I am going to get up.”
He gave me a look which I interpreted as, “Get up and be damned!” I complied—in part.
“Oh, help me into these things, will you?” I said, at length; and instantly he was at my side, gentle and patient, lacing my shoes, because it made my head ache to bend over, buttoning collar and cravat, and slipping my coat on while I leaned against the tumbled bed.
“Well!” I said, with a grimace, and stood up, shakily.
“Well,” he echoed, “here we are again, as poor little Grigg says.”
“With our salaries in our pockets and our possessions on our backs.”
“And no prospects,” he added, gayly.
“Not a blessed one, unless we count a prospect of trouble with Buckhurst.”