“I make nothing of your nonsense,” said I coldly.

“What?  Nothing?  And yonder sits its pretty and romantic inspiration?  I am glad I have lived to see the maid who dealt you your first wound!”

“Do you fancy that I am in love?” said I defiantly.

“Why not admit what your lop-ears and moony mien yell aloud to the world entire?”

“Have you no common sense, Lana?  Do you imagine a man can fall in love in a brief week?”

“I have been wondering,” said she coolly, “whether you have ever before seen her.”

“Continue to wonder,” said I bluntly.

“I do....  Because you call her ‘Lois’ so readily—­ and you came near it the first day you had apparently set eyes on her.  Also, she calls you ‘Euan’ with a tripping lack of hesitation—­ even with a certain natural tenderness—­

I turned on her, exasperated: 

“Come,” said I, controlling my temper with difficulty,.  “I am tired of playing butt to your silly arrows.”

“Oh, how you squirm, Euan!  Cupid and I are shooting you full as a porcupine!”

“If Cupid is truly shooting,” said I with malice, “you had best hunt cover, Lana.  For I think already a spent shaft or two has bruised you, flying at hazard from his bow.”

She smilingly ignored what I had said.

“Tell me,” she persisted, “are you not at her pretty feet already?  Is not your very soul down on its worthy marrow-bones before this girl?”

“Is not every gallant gentleman who comes to Croghan’s at the feet of Miss de Contrecoeur?”

“One or two are in the neighbourhood of my feet,” she remarked.

“Aye, and too near to please me,” said I.

“Who, for example?”

“Boyd—­ for example,” I replied, giving her a hearty scowl.

“Oh!” she drawled airily.  “He is not yet near enough my ankles to please me.”

“You little fool,” said I between my teeth, “do you think you can play alley-taw and cat’s-cradle with a man like that?”

Then a cold temper flashed in her eyes.

“A man like that,” she repeated.  “And pray, dear friend, what manner of man may be ‘a man like that?’”

“One who can over-match you at your own silly sport—­ and carry the game to its sinister finish!  I warn you, have a care of yourself, Lanette.  Sir John is a tyro to this man.”

She said hotly:  “If I should say to him what you have but now said to me, he would have you out for your impertinence!”

“If he continues to conduct as he has begun,” said I, “the chances are that I may have him out for his effrontery.”

“What!  Who gave you the privilege of interfering in my affairs, you silly ninny?”

“So that you display ordinary prudence, I have no desire to interfere,” I retorted angrily.

“And if I do not!  If I am imprudent!  If I choose to be audacious, reckless, shameless!  Is it your affair?”