“How can I do that, Mr. Nettlethorpe?”
“By giving me your hand. By consenting to become my wife and mistress of my house.”
Mr. Nettlethorpe appended a huge sigh to this request. It might have been a gasp of relief—it might have proceeded from some tenderer emotion.
Patty at first turned away her head—it might be supposed to hide her maiden blushes—it might be to conceal a roguish smile—or, probably, to consider her answer. Then she said—
“But your sister is mistress of your house now, and perhaps she might not like to part with the keys,” observed Patty, keeping her countenance in a most wonderful way.
“She shall leave the house directly you come into it. I pledge my word as to that. She can go back to her mother, who resides in London.”
He glanced at her with what he intended to be an expression of love, but it struck her as being irresistibly comic.
Nettlethorpe regarded the coy beauty with a somewhat dubious expression.
Patty remained silent.
“What say you?” he inquired.