“You don’t think she will. And why not, I pray?”
“Because she has another attachment.”
Lord Ethalwood gave a prolonged “oh,” but forbore from pressing the question further.
“You can guess who the object of that attachment is,” murmured his companion.
“I think you are a wise counsellor, Agatha, and I will think over all you have said and act in accordance with the dictates of my judgment, but to leave this country, to part with you, my charmer, would be, indeed, a terrible punishment.”
He caught the French maiden round the waist, pressed her form, and covered her face with kisses.
“Oh, moussu—Oh, pray don’t!” she cried, as a deep blush suffused her face and neck. “Pray release me.”
“You are my protectress, my adviser, my sweet pet,” cried he.
She struggled to release herself from his grasp, and when she had succeeded she opened the door and fled precipitately.
“Ah!” ejaculated Lord Ethalwood, “what a charming creature! So piquant!—so unsophisticated—so loveable!”