“Widiculous, my charmer!” ejaculated Lord Fitzbogleton. “You surely do not for a moment imagine I am jesting?”
“I don’t know what to think; you have taken me so by surprise.”
“Ah, ah, endeavoured to carry the fortress by storm, as our friend Smithers Smythe would say, but you must allow me the privilege,” and here he snatched another kiss.
“It’s very wrong and altogether improper,” cried Arabella. “If you don’t desist I shall be offended—indeed I shall; and when I am once offended I must tell you frankly I am not likely to forget—I won’t say forgive, but certainly I shall not forget.”
“Now you are angwy.”
“I am not very well pleased with you, I candidly confess.”
“You do not like me, then?”
“I have not said that. You will please me better by being a little more reasonable. I do not care about so much ardour and impetuosity, and for this reason I doubt its sincerity. Now don’t be angry—I do not mean to offend you.”
“You cannot do that. I love you too much.”
“Love me?”