“Well, Mayme; how is the ardent swain?”
She turned to me with the old flash in her big, shadowed eyes: “Did you say swain or swine, Dominie?”
“Ah!” said I. “Has he changed his rôle?”
“He’s given himself away, if that’s what you mean.”
“I thought that would come.”
“He—he wanted me to take a trip to Boston with him.”
I considered this bit of information, which was not as surprising or unexpected as Mayme appeared to deem it. “Have you told the Little Red Doctor?”
“Doc’d kill him,” said Mayme simply.
“What better reason for telling?”
“Oh, the poor kid: he don’t know any better.”