He had always played the big, patronising, bossing brother with me and I had suffered it from him, although, from a physical standpoint, the suffering of late had been one of good-natured tolerance. To-day, there was something in my manner that told him he had reached the end of it.
"Tell me what you mean?" he snarled.
"If you do not know what I mean, brother mine, sit down and I will tell you."
"No!" he answered.
"Oh, well!—I'll tell you anyway."
I went up close to him. "What are you going to do about Peggy Darrol?" I demanded.
The shot hit hard; but he was almost equal to it. He sat down on the chest again and toyed once more with the point of the rapier. Then, without looking up, he answered:
"Peggy Darrol,—eh, George! Peggy Darrol, did you say? Who the devil is she? Oh,—ah,—eh,—oh, yes! the blacksmith's sister,—um,—nice little wench, Peggy:—attractive, fresh, clinging, strawberries and cream and all that sort of thing. Bit of a dreamer, though!"
"Who set her dreaming?" I asked, pushing my anger back.
"Hanged if I know; born in her I suppose. It is part of every woman's make-up. Pretty little thing, though; by Gad! she is."