“He told you to!” she cried.  “It is no sense denying it, you said yourself that there was nothing farther from your thoughts.  He told you to.”

“He spoke of it the first, if that is what you mean,” I began.

She was walking ever the faster, and looking fair in front of her; but at this she made a little noise in her head, and I thought she would have run.

“Without which,” I went on, “after what you said last Friday, I would never have been so troublesome as make the offer.  But when he as good as asked me, what was I to do?”

She stopped and turned round upon me.

“Well, it is refused at all events,” she cried, “and there will be an end of that.”

And she began to walk forward.

“I suppose I could expect no better,” said I, “but I think you might try to be a little kind to me for the last end of it.  I see not why you should be harsh.  I have loved you very well, Catriona—­no harm that I should call you so for the last time.  I have done the best that I could manage, I am trying the same still, and only vexed that I can do no better.  It is a strange thing to me that you can take any pleasure to be hard to me.”

“I am not thinking of you,” she said, “I am thinking of that man, my father.”

“Well, and that way, too!” said I.  “I can be of use to you that way, too; I will have to be.  It is very needful, my dear, that we should consult about your father; for the way this talk has gone, an angry man will be James More.”

She stopped again.  “It is because I am disgraced?” she asked.

“That is what he is thinking,” I replied, “but I have told you already to make nought of it.”

“It will be all one to me,” she cried.  “I prefer to be disgraced!”

I did not know very well what to answer, and stood silent.

There seemed to be something working in her bosom after that last cry; presently she broke out, “And what is the meaning of all this?  Why is all this shame loundered on my head?  How could you dare it, David Balfour?”

“My dear,” said I, “what else was I to do?”

“I am not your dear,” she said, “and I defy you to be calling me these words.”

“I am not thinking of my words,” said I.  “My heart bleeds for you, Miss Drummond.  Whatever I may say, be sure you have my pity in your difficult position.  But there is just the one thing that I wish you would bear in view, if it was only long enough to discuss it quietly; for there is going to be a collieshangie when we two get home.  Take my word for it, it will need the two of us to make this matter end in peace.”

“Ay,” said she.  There sprang a patch of red in either of her cheeks.  “Was he for fighting you?” said she.

“Well, he was that,” said I.

She gave a dreadful kind of laugh.  “At all events, it is complete!” she cried.  And then turning on me:  “My father and I are a fine pair,” she said, “but I am thanking the good God there will be somebody worse than what we are.  I am thanking the good God that he has let me see you so.  There will never be the girl made that would not scorn you.”