“It is.”
“Then, of course, as you are so persistent I have no alternative. Be satisfied with the assurance that I will accept the gift.”
“I am the happiest of men,” exclaimed the young nobleman. “Farewell for the pwesent, dearest Awabella. You are an angel—that’s what you are.”
“Am I?” she exclaimed, bursting out into a laugh.
“There you go again,” ejaculated her companion. “You are so fond of looking at things in a widiculous light. A fellow don’t like to be held up to widicule. No fellow likes that.”
“No, of course not.”
“Then why do you do it?”
“I have not attempted to hold you up to ridicule,” said she, pouting.
“No, no, I didn’t mean to say that. Pardon me, my charmer, I could not find it in my heart to blame you. You are faultless.”
The champagne and other sparkling wines, together with the excitement of the day, had produced a visible effect upon Fitzbogleton, whose utterance was a little thick.