Dalton looked at him, and his eye, like that of his father, when enraged, glared with a deadly light.
“Pass on, sir,” he replied; “Mave Sullivan is no girl for the like of you to address. She wishes to have no conversation with you, and she will not.”
“I shan't take your word for that, my good friend,” replied Henderson, smiling; “she can speak for herself; and will, too, I trust.”
“Dear Condy,” whispered Mave, “don't put yourself in a passion; you are too weak to bear it.”
“Miss Sullivan,” proceeded young Dick, “is a pretty girl, and as such I claim a portion of her attention, and—should she so far favor me—even of her conversation; and that with every respect for your very superior judgment, my good Mr. Dalton.”
“What is your object, now, in wishin' to spake to her?” asked the latter, looking him sternly in the face.
“I don't exactly see that I'm bound to answer your catechism,” said Dick; “it is to Miss Sullivan I would address myself. I speak to you, Miss Sullivan; and, allow me to say, that I feel a very warm interest in your welfare, and nothing would give me greater pleasure than to promote it by any means in my power.”
Mave was about to reply, but Dalton anticipated her.