“It warn’t?” she turned a hawklike glance on her niece. “Who was it?” she asked inquisitively.
“Mr. Howe.”
“Mr. Ho—— Not Martin Howe!”
Lucy nodded.
“Yes.”
“Martin Howe here—on my land! What was he doin’?”
“He wasn’t on your land,” Lucy said. “He left me at the gate. He was seeing me home. I’ve been there to supper.”
“What!”
Never had the girl heard so many sensations 133 crowded into one word. There was surprise, unbelief, scorn, anger. But anger predominated.
“An’ how long, pray tell me, have you been goin’ backwards an’ forrads to the Howes, an’ consortin’ with their brother?”