There was a moment's pause, and then Kate said, with a cough and a stammer and her head aside, “Is that so very tiring, Pete?”
Pete leapt from his chair and laughed again like a man demented. “D'ye say so, Kitty? The word then, darling—the word in my ear—as soft as soft——”
He was leaning over the bed, but Kate drew away from him, and Nancy pulled him back, saying, “Get off with you, you goosey gander! What for should you bother a poor girl to know if sugar's sweet, and if she's willing to change a sweetheart for a husband?”
It was done. One act—nay, half an act; a word—nay, no word at all, but only silence. The daring venture was afoot.
Grannie came up with Kate's dinner that day, kissed her on both cheeks, felt them hot, wagged her head wisely, and whispered, “I know—you needn't tell me!”
XIV.
The last hymn was sung, Cæsar came home from chapel, changed back from his best to his work-day clothes, and then there was talking and laughing in the kitchen amid the jingling of plates and the vigorous rattling of knives and forks.
“Phil must be my best man,” said Pete. “He'll be back to Douglas now, but I'll get you to write me a line, Cæsar, and ask him.”
“Do you hold with long engagements, Pete?” said Grannie.