As I sat there worshipping, enchanted, resentful, martyred, alternately aching with loneliness and devotion, and at the same time heartily detesting every man on whom she chanced to smile, comes a sly and fragrant breath in my ear. And, turning, I discover Lana perched on a step of the stairs above me, her mocking eyes brilliant with unkind delight.
"Poor swain a-sighing!" said she. "Love is sure a thorny way, Euan."
"Have a care for your own skirts then," said I ungraciously.
"Yours, Lanette. Your petticoat needs mending now."
"If love no more than rend my petticoat I ought to be content," she said coolly.
Silenced by her effrontery, which truly passed all bounds, I merely glared at her, and presently she laughed outright.
"Broad-brim," said she, "I was not born yesterday. Have no worries concerning me, but look to yourself, for I think you have been sorely hit at last. And God knows such wounds go hard with a truly worthy and good young man."
"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."
"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--"
"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."
"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?"