IN WHICH THE POISON BEGINS TO WORK

Spike sat glowering at the newspaper, yet very conscious, none the less, that Hermione often turned to glance at him wistfully as she bustled to and fro; at last she spoke.

“Arthur, dear—­why so gloomy?”

“I ain’t—­I mean, I’m not.”

“You’re not sulking about anything?”

“No.”

“Then you’re sick.”

“I’m all right.”

“But you didn’t enjoy your dinner a little bit.”

“I—­I wasn’t hungry, I guess,” said Spike, frowning down at the paper.  But Hermione was beside him, her cool fingers caressing his curls.

“Boy, dear—­what is it?”

“Say, Hermy, where’d you get them roses?” and he nodded to the flowers she had set among her shining hair.

“Oh, Mr. Geoffrey brought them.”

“Been here, has he?”

“Yes, he came in with Ann this morning—­why?”

“Did he—­did he stay long?”

“N-o, I don’t think so—­why?”

“Comes round here pretty often, don’t he?”

“Why, you see, he’s your friend, dear, and we are very near neighbours.”

“Oh, I know all that, but—­folks are beginning to—­talk.”

Hermione’s smooth brows were wrinkled faintly and her caressing hand had fallen away.

“To talk!” she repeated, “you mean about—­me?”

“Yes!” nodded Spike, avoiding her eyes, “about you and—­him!”

“Well—­let them!” she answered gently, “you and Ann are all I care about, so let them talk.”

“But I—­I don’t like folks t’ talk about my sister, an’ it’s got t’ stop.  You got t’ tell him so, or else I will.  What’s he got t’ go buying ye flowers for, anyway?”

Hermione’s black brows knit in a sudden frown.  “Arthur, don’t be silly!”

“Oh, I know you think I’m only a kid—­but I ain’t—­I’m not.  If you can’t take care of—­of yourself, I must and—­”

“Arthur—­stop!”

“Well, but what’s he always crawlin’ around here for?”

“He doesn’t crawl—­he couldn’t,” she cried in sudden anger; then in gentler tones, “I don’t think you’d better say any more, or maybe I shall grow angry.  If you have grown to think so—­so badly of him, remember I’m your sister.”

“But you’re a girl, an’ he’s a man an’—­”

“Stop it!” Hermione stamped her foot, and meeting her flashing glance, Spike wilted and—­stopped it.  So, while he glowered at the paper again, Hermione put away the dinner things, making more clatter about it than was usual, and turning now and then to glance at him from under her long lashes.

“Where did you meet M’Ginnis as you came home, Arthur?”

“At the corner of—­say, who told you I met him?”

“You did.”

“I never said a word about meetin’ him.”

“No, but you’ve been telling me what he told you.  Only M’Ginnis could be vile enough to dare say such things about me.  Oh, Arthur, for shame—­how can you listen to that brute beast—­for shame!”