"Done with you!" the lad cried.
"Nay, I don't mind going farther," Hawkesworth continued. "I'll wager you the same sum that she does it within the year."
"This year?"
"A year from to-day."
Tom jumped up in heat. "What the devil do you mean?" he cried. Then he sat down again. "But what matter!" he said, "I'll take you."
Hawkesworth as he pulled out his betting book turned his head aside to hide a smile. "I note it," he said. "'P. H. bets Sir Thomas Maitland a hundred that Miss Sophia Maitland is married at Dr. Keith's chapel; and another hundred that the marriage is within the year.'"
"Right!" Tom said, glowering at him. His boyish estimate of the importance of his family, and of the sacredness of his womankind, sucked the flavour from the bet; ordinarily the young scapegrace loved a wager.
Hawkesworth put up his book again. "Good," he said. "You'll see that that will be two hundred in my pocket some day."
"Not it!" Tom answered, rudely. "My sister is not that sort! And perhaps the sooner you know it, the better," he added, aggressively.
"Why, lad, what do you mean?"