When Molly returned with the brandy, Gay was leaning
against the mantelpiece idly burning a bunch of dried cat-tails he had
taken from a blue-and-white china vase.
"It's a gloomy old business, isn't it?" he observed, glancing from the
high canopied bed with its hangings of faded damask to an engraving of
the Marriage of Pocahontas between the dormer-windows. "If there are
ghosts about, I suppose I'd better prepare to face them."
"Only in the west wing, the darkies say, but I think they are bats.
As for those in the haunt's walk, I never believed in them. Patsey is
bringing your brandy. Can I do anything else for you?"
"Only tell me," he burst out, "why in thunder the whole county hates
me?"
She laughed shortly. "I can't tell you--wait and find out."
Here audacity half angered, half paralyzed him.
"What a vixen you are!" he observed presently with grudging respect.
The crimson flooded her face, and he watched her teeth gleam
dangerously, as if she were bracing herself for a retort. The impulse to
torment her was strong in him, and he yielded to it much as a boy might
have teased a small captive animal of the woods.
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