“I have no desire to attempt such a course of action,” observed the young nobleman, in an altered and more subdued tone. “Pardon me. I ask your pardon,” he ejaculated, falling on one knee before his companion.
“Rise, my lord, pray rise; you would not like to be caught by any of the company in this supplicating position.”
“I will not wise until you tell me you forgive me,” cried he.
“I do forgive you. Be satisfied with that declaration.”
Lord Fitzbogleton found out that he was no match for his fair enslaver, whose force of character was far beyond his own. He arose and looked a little foolish. Most men do when they meet with a reproof or a rebuff under similar circumstances.
“You are weally most exacting and hard-hearted,” said he, “but, possibly, I have been to blame; but I am sure you will take a merciful view of the case. Now tell me, dearest Arabella, if you feel disposed to take compassion on me. Hang it, but I am a poor hand at pleading my own cause—don’t you think so?”
“I hardly know what reply to give to such a question,” she observed with a witching smile.
“I am sure you think so, only you don’t like to acknowledge it. Come, dearest, let us be friends.”
“We are friends, and true ones I hope.”
“That’s kind of you to say that. I mustn’t, of course, I mustn’t. I mean I must keep at a respectful distance—eh?”