"So your sister doesn't like me?"
"No, she doesn't," said Ware, with simple candor.
"Told you to put a stop to my coming here?"
"Not here--to the house, yes. She doesn't give a damn, so long
as she doesn't have to see you."
Murrell, somber-faced and thoughtful, examined a crack in the
flooring.
"I'd like to know what happened back yonder in North Carolina to
make her so blazing mad?" continued Ware.
"Well, if you want to know, I told her I loved her."
"That's all right, that's the fool talk girls like to hear," said
Ware. He lighted a cigar with an air of wearied patience.
"Open the door, Tom," commanded Murrell.
"It is close in here," agreed the planter.
"It isn't that, but you smoke the meanest cigars I ever smelt, I
always think your shoes are on fire. Tom, do you want to get rid
of her? Did yot mean that?"
"Oh, shut up," said Tom, dropping his voice to a surly whisper.
There was a brief silence, during which Murrell studied his
friend's face. When he spoke, it was to give the conversation a
new direction.
"Did she bring the boy here last night? I saw you drive off with
him in the carriage."
"Yes, she makes a regular pet of the little ragamuffin--it's
perfectly sickening!"
"Who were the two men with him?"
"One of 'em calls himself judge Price; the other kept out of the
way, I didn't hear his name."
"Is the boy going to stay at Belle Plain?" inquired Murrell.
"That notion hasn't struck her yet, for I heard her say at
breakfast that she'd take him to Raleigh this afternoon.
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