"I stayed to see you, my girl." A lover may call his lady love his girl, and do so very prettily. He may so use the word that she will like it, and be grateful in her heart for the sweetness of the sound. But Sir Griffin did not do it nicely. "I've got ever so much to say to you."
"I won't flatter you by saying that I stayed to hear it."
"But you did;—didn't you now?" She shook her head, but there was something almost of playfulness in her manner of doing it. "Ah, but I know you did. And why shouldn't you speak out, now that we are to be man and wife? I like a girl to speak out. I suppose if I want to be with you, you want as much to be with me; eh?"
"I don't see that that follows."
"By ––––, if it doesn't, I'll be off!"
"You must please yourself about that, Sir Griffin."
"Come; do you love me? You have never said you loved me." Luckily perhaps for her he thought that the best assurance of love was a kiss. She did not revolt, or attempt to struggle with him; but the hot blood flew over her entire face, and her lips were very cold to his, and she almost trembled in his grasp. Sir Griffin was not a man who could ever have been the adored of many women, but the instincts of his kind were strong enough within him to make him feel that she did not return his embrace with passion. He had found her to be very beautiful;—but it seemed to him that she had never been so little beautiful as when thus pressed close to his bosom. "Come," he said, still holding her; "you'll give me a kiss?"
"I did do it," she said.
"No;—nothing like it. Oh, if you won't, you know—"
On a sudden she made up her mind, and absolutely did kiss him. She would sooner have leaped at the blackest, darkest, dirtiest river in the county. "There," she said, "that will do," gently extricating herself from his arms. "Some girls are different, I know; but you must take me as I am, Sir Griffin;—that is, if you do take me."