“It is better that one laugh with us than at us.  There is a vast difference in the two methods,” answered John, contemptuously.

“You dare to laugh at me,” cried Dorothy, grasping the hilt of her sword, and pretending to be angry.  John waved her off with his hand, and laughingly said, “Little you know concerning the way to a man’s heart, and no doubt less of the way to a woman’s.”

“I, perhaps, know more about it than you would believe,” returned Malcolm No. 2.

“If you know aught of the latter subject, it is more than I would suppose,” said John.  “It is absurd to say that a woman can love a man who is unable to defend himself.”

“A vain man thinks that women care only for men of his own pattern,” retorted Dorothy.  “Women love a strong arm, it is true, but they also love a strong heart, and you see I am not at all afraid of you, even though you have twice my strength.  There are as many sorts of bravery, Sir John, as—­as there are hairs in my beard.”

“That is not many,” interrupted John.

“And,” continued the girl, “I believe, John,—­Sir John,—­you possess all the kinds of bravery that are good.”

“You flatter me,” said John.

“Yes,” returned Dorothy, “that was my intent.”

After that unflattering remark there came a pause.  Then the girl continued somewhat hesitatingly:  “Doubtless many women, Sir John, have seen your virtues more clearly than even I see them.  Women have a keener perception of masculine virtues than—­than we have.”

Dorothy paused, and her heart beat with a quickened throb while she awaited his reply.  A new field of discovery was opening up to her and a new use for her disguise.

John made no reply, but the persistent girl pursued her new line of attack.

[Illustration]

“Surely Sir John Manners has had many sweethearts,” said Dorothy, in flattering tones.  There were rocks and shoals ahead for John’s love barge.  “Many, many, I am sure,” the girl persisted.

“Ah, a few, a few, I admit,” John like a fool replied.  Dorothy was accumulating disagreeable information rapidly.

“While you were at London court,” said she, “the fine ladies must have sought you in great numbers—­I am sure they did.”

“Perhaps, oh, perhaps,” returned John.  “One cannot always remember such affairs.”  His craft was headed for the rocks.  Had he observed Dorothy’s face, he would have seen the storm a-brewing.

“To how many women, Sir John, have you lost your heart, and at various times how many have lost their hearts to you?” asked the persistent girl.—­“What a senseless question,” returned John.  “A dozen times or more; perhaps a score or two score times.  I cannot tell the exact number.  I did not keep an account.”

Dorothy did not know whether she wanted to weep or be angry.  Pique and a flash of temper, however, saved her from tears, and she said, “You are so brave and handsome that you must have found it a very easy task—­much easier than it would be for me—­to convince those confiding ones of your affection?”