“Well, and that way, too!” said I. “I can be of use to you that way, too; I will have to be. It is very needful, my dear, that we should consult about your father; for the way this talk has gone, an angry man will be James More.” She stopped again. “It is because I am disgraced?” she asked. “That is what he is thinking,” I replied, “but I have told you already to make nought of it.” “It will be all one to me,” she cried. “I prefer to be disgraced!” I did not know very well what to answer, and stood silent. There seemed to be something working in her bosom after that last cry; presently she broke out, “And what is the meaning of all this? Why is all this shame loundered on my head? How could you dare it, David Balfour?” “My dear,” said I, “what else was I to do?” “I am not your dear,” she said, “and I defy you to be calling me these words.” “I am not thinking of my words,” said I. “My heart bleeds for you, Miss Drummond. Whatever I may say, be sure you have my pity in your difficult position. But there is just the one thing that I wish you would bear in view, if it was only long enough to discuss it quietly; for there is going to be a collieshangie when we two get home. Take my word for it, it will need the two of us to make this matter end in peace.” “Ay,” said she. There sprang a patch of red in either of her cheeks. “Was he for fighting you?” said she. “Well, he was that,” said I. She gave a dreadful kind of laugh. “At all events, it is complete!” she cried. And then turning on me. “My father and I are a fine pair,” said she, “but I am thanking the good God there will be somebody worse than what we are. I am thanking the good God that he has let me see you so. There will never be the girl made that will not scorn you.” I had borne a good deal pretty patiently, but this was over the mark. “You have no right to speak to me like that,” said I. “What have I done but to be good to you, or try to be? And here is my repayment! O, it is too much.” She kept looking at me with a hateful smile. “Coward!” said she. “The word in your throat and in your father’s!” I cried. “I have dared him this day already in your interest. I will dare him again, the nasty pole-cat; little I care which of us should fall! Come,” said I, “back to the house with us; let us be done with it, let me be done with the whole Hieland crew of you! You will see what you think when I am dead.” She shook her head at me with that same smile I could have struck her for. “O, smile away!” I cried. “I have seen your bonny father smile on the wrong side this day. Not that I mean he was afraid, of course,” I added hastily, “but he preferred the other way of it.” “What is this?” she asked. “When I offered to draw with him,” said I. “You offered to draw upon James More!” she cried. “And I did so,” said I, “and found him backward enough, or how would we be here?” “There is a meaning upon this,” said she. “What is it you are meaning?”