“You see it was this way, Baron Ned,” she began, leaning back against the table and smoothing out her apron.  “Yesterday while Mistress Gwynn and another lady, a duchess, were eating their dinner in the small dining room, three drunken ruffians came in and tried to kiss them.  Master Hamilton, who was here at this very table, heard the disturbance, so he drew his sword, ran to the rescue, and he and I beat the fellows out.  He fought beautifully, but one man can’t stand long against three, so I upset two of the ruffians by tripping them—­pulled their feet from under them, you know—­and Master Hamilton’s sword did the rest.  One of them ran away, and the other two were carried to the hospital on stretchers.  One of the ruffians had tried to kiss me a few minutes before, and I had almost drowned him with a pot of tea.  If he ever returns, I’ll see that the tea is boiling.”

“It seems that every one is wanting to kiss you, Betty,” I remarked.

“Not every one, but too many,” she rejoined.

“And you don’t want to be kissed, Betty?” I asked.

“Well, not by the wrong man,” she answered, laughing softly and tossing her head emphatically.

“I wish I were the right man,” I suggested.

“There is no right man—­yet,” she returned, laughing and dimpling till I almost wished there was not a dimpling stubborn girl in all the world.

“Betty, you’re a bloodthirsty little wretch,” I said, shaking my head sorrowfully.  “You scald one man and help Hamilton to kill two.”

“Oh, they will not die,” she answered seriously.  “I was haunted by the fear that they might, so I got up in the middle of the night, took father and one of the boys with a link, and went to the hospital, where I learned that they will recover.”

“Show me to Hamilton’s room, Betty, and bring two lobsters there instead of one.  He and I will have dinner together,” I said, turning to go with her.

“He doesn’t seem to want to eat, though I doubt if his lack of appetite is owing wholly to his wounds,” she replied, as we were leaving the tap-room.

“How long has he been here?” I asked.

“Since yesterday noon,” she answered.  “He came just in time to find trouble.  An hour ago I took a bowl of broth to him and a plate of sparrow-grass, but he said dolefully that the food would stick in his throat.  I told him he was not wounded in the throat.  Then he said it was in his heart, and that such a wound kills the appetite.  I believe he’s in love, Baron Ned,” she concluded, leaning toward me and whispering earnestly.

“With you, Betty?” I asked.

“No, no, with some one else.”

“Would it make you unhappy?” I asked.

“To be in love?” she asked, arching her eyebrows.

“No.  For him to be in love,” I said.

“If he is unhappily so, I should be sorry,” she answered.

“And you would not be jealous?” I asked.