"Dost love any other? Come, tell me for love's sake, sweetheart. An' I thought so!"
"Marry, no!" she said. Then with a short, half-checked laugh, "Well—Prithee but one!"
"Ah!" cried Berwick, "is't so?"
"Verily," she answered mockingly. "It is so in truth, an' 'tis just Dad. As for Darby, I cannot tell what I feel for him. 'Twould be full as easy to say were I to put it to myself, 'Dost love Debora Thornbury?' 'Yea' or 'Nay,' for, Heaven knows, sometimes I love her mightily—and sometimes I don't; an' then 'tis a fearsome 'don't,' Nick. But come thee in."
"No!" answered Berwick, bitterly. "I am not one of you." Catching her little hands he held them a moment against his coat, and the girl felt the heavy beating of his heart before he let them fall, and strode away.
She stood on the step looking after the solitary figure. Her cheeks burned, and she tapped her foot impatiently on the threshold.
"Ever it doth end thus," she said. "I am not one of you," echoing his tone. "In good sooth no. Neither is old Ned Saddler or dear John Sevenoakes. We be but three; just Dad, an' Darby, an' Deb." Then, another thought coming to her. "Nay four when I count little Dorian. Little Dorian, sweet lamb,—an' so I will count him till I find his father."
A shade went over her face but vanished as she entered the room.
"I have given thee time to take a long look at Darby, Dad," she cried. "Is't not good to have him at home?" slipping one arm around her brother's throat and leaning her head against him.
"Where be the coach, truant?" asked Saddler.