“Forgive me,” said he, affectionately.  “I did not mean to bother you; but as things stand, the matter is better out than in.  I hate underhandedness.  I may have made an awful fool of myself, but at least I have not made a fool of her.  I have been as careful as possible not to compromise her in any way; for I know how people do talk, and a man has no right to let the girl he loves be talked about.  The more he loves her, the more he ought to take care of her.  Don’t you think so?”

“Yes.”

“I’d cut myself up into little pieces for Janetta’s sake,” he went on, “and I’d do a deal for Helen too, the sisters are so fond of one another.  She shall always have a home with us, when we are married.”

“Then,” said Miss Williams, hardly able again to resist a smile, “you are quite certain you will be married?  You have no doubt about her caring for you?”

David pulled his whiskers, not very voluminous yet, looked conscious, and yet humble.

“Well, I don’t exactly say that.  I know I’m not half good enough for her.  Still, I thought, when I had taken my degree and fairly settled myself at the bar, I’d try.  I have a tolerably good income of my own too, though of course I am not as well off as that confounded Roy.  There he is at this minute meandering up and down the West Sands with those two girls, setting every body’s tongue going!  I can’t stand it.  I declare to you I won’t stand it another day.”

“Stop a moment,” and she caught hold of David as he started up.  “What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know and I don’t care, only I won’t have my girl talked about—­my pretty, merry, innocent girl.  He ought to know better, a shrewd old fellow like him.  It is silly, selfish, mean.”

This was more than Miss Williams could bear.  She stood up, pale to the lips, but speaking strongly, almost fiercely: 

“You ought to know better, David Dalziel.  You ought to know that Mr. Roy had not an atom of selfishness or meanness in him—­that he would be the last man in the world to compromise any girl.  If he chooses to marry Janetta, or any one else, he has a perfect right to do it, and I for one will not try to hinder him.”

“Then you will not stand by me any more?”

“Not if you are blind and unfair.  You may die of love, though I don’t think you will; people don’t do it nowadays” (there was a slightly bitter jar in the voice):  “but love ought to make you all the more honorable, clear-sighted, and just.  And as to Mr. Roy—­”

She might have talked to the winds, for David was not listening.  He had heard the click of the garden gate, and turned round with blazing eyes.

“There he is again!  I can’t stand it, Miss Williams.  I give you fair warning I can’t stand it.  He has walked home with them, and is waiting about at the laurel bush, mooning after them.  Oh, hang him!”

Before she had time to speak the young man was gone.  But she had no fear of any very tragic consequences when she saw the whole party standing together—­David talking to Janetta, Mr. Roy to Helen, who looked so fresh, so young, so pretty, almost as pretty as Janetta.  Nor did Mr. Roy, pleased and animated, look so very old.