“Oh yes; instead of being a long-legged flapper, with red hands and a cold in your head, you have bloomed into a great beauty.”
“Don’t talk nonsense,” I said impatiently.
“By Jove, it’s true! Old Finny”—thus did he refer to the baronet, his brother-in-law—“said that if you were brought out in London you would make a tremendous stir.”
“Rubbish,” I ejaculated, “he was pulling your leg.”
“Not mine; he was talking to the governor; and young Chambers told me there was no one to touch you at the Belmont hop, that the men were falling over one another to get a dance, and I don’t wonder.” Here he brought down his legs with a crash, threw his cigarette into the fire, and, turning to face me, said, “Eva, I adore you!”
“Oh, shut up,” I answered rudely.
“That’s a nice way to talk to a fellow,” he exclaimed in an injured tone.
“It’s the right way when a fellow is talking nonsense.”
“You would be the making of me, Evie; you know that,” he continued, towering over me as he spoke; “you are awfully clever, the governor says—so clear-headed and sensible, with a capital seat on horseback, and uncommon good looks. He is dead nuts on you. Come now, say you will marry me!”
“And what about your mother?” I asked.