“You have made up your mind somewhat hastily,” he said to her.
“By Jove! yes, we have that,” she retorted. “The whole tale has come out. Upon my soul, Gabriel, I never thought you would turn out such a cur.”
There was a species of hearty frankness even in her recriminations, a bluff and ruddy brevity that smacked of stall and stubble.
“May I ask you to tell my wife that I am here,” was the man’s reply.
“Drop that polite bluff, then,” said the girl.
“You will not gainsay me the justice of being suffered to proclaim the truth.”
Blanche Gusset twisted her broad red mouth into a puckered expression of incredulity.
“Some one has poisoned the porridge,” she remarked, “or half the county’s a liar. Pity the governor’s out; he would have had something to say on the matter,” and she smote her leg with her switch.
The man’s courage flashed out pathetically and appealed her pity.
“For God’s sake listen to reason,” he said; “what Ophelia has been told I cannot imagine. I can swear the whole is a wicked myth. You were a good friend to me once; let me see Ophelia now. I swear I have nothing to say that can hurt her heart.”