“No, I don’t think you do!” the girl retorted. “But I’ll tell you. I thought your feathers were your own then. Now—I should be uneasy if I were you.”
“Why?”
“You might fall among crows and be plucked. I can tell you, you’d be a sorry sight in your own feathers!”
He turned a dusky red. The shaft had gone home, but he tried to hide the wound. “A dull bird, eh?” he said, affecting to misunderstand her. “Well, I thought you liked dull birds. I couldn’t be duller than Rodd, and you don’t find fault with him.”
It was a return shot, aimed only to cover his retreat. But the shot told in a way that surprised him. Betty reddened to her hair, and her eyes snapped.
“At any rate, Mr. Rodd is what he seems!” she cried.
“Oh! oh!”
“He’s not hollow!”
“No! Of course not. A most witty, bright, amusing gentleman, the pink of fashion, and—what is it?—the mould of form! Hollow? Oh, no, Betty, very solid, I should say—and stolid!” with a grin. “Not a roaring blade, perhaps—I could hardly call him that, but a sound, substantial, wooden—gentleman! I am sure that your father values him highly as a clerk, and would value him still more highly as——”
“What?”