Marjorie Schuyler looked at her sharply. “Are you laughing?”
“Faith, I’m closer to weeping; ’twould be a lonesome, hard rearing that would come to a son of King Midas, I’m thinking. I’d far rather be the son of his gooseherd, if I had the choosing.”
She leaned forward impulsively and gathered up the hands of the girl opposite in the warm, friendly compass of those vagabond gloves. “Do ye really love him, cailin a’sthore?” And this time it was her look that was sharp.
“Why, of course I love him! What a foolish question! Why should I be marrying him if I didn’t love him? Why do you ask?”
“Because—the son of King Midas with no mother, with no one at all but the king, growing up all alone in a gloomy old castle, with no one trusting him, would need a great deal of love—a great, great deal—”
“That’s all right, Ellen. I’ll find her for myself.” It was a man’s voice, pitched overhigh; it came from somewhere beyond and below the inclosing curtains and cut off the last of Patsy’s speech.
“That’s funny,” said Marjorie Schuyler, rising. “There’s Billy now. I’ll bring him in and let you see for yourself that he’s not at all an object of sympathy—or pity.”
She disappeared into the library, leaving Patsy speculating recklessly. They must have met just the other side of the closed hangings, for to Patsy their voices sounded very near and close together.
“Hello, Billy!”