“You speak figuratively, of course,” I said, “in talking of tying her to you?”
“No,” he said. “I talk of the real bond.”
“Of matrimony?”
“Certainly.”
With a naughty word, I jumped to my feet, strode the round of the room, sat down flop on the table, put my hands in my pockets, tried to whistle, laughed, and burst out—“I suppose you intend this, in a manner, for a confidence? I suppose you are taking straight up the tale of a week ago? Well, I haven’t lost the impression of that moment, or gone mad in the interval. Do you want me to sympathize with your insanity, or to argue you out of it—which?”
He did not answer. Indeed, the offensiveness of my tone was not winning.
“I am perfectly aware,” I went on, “that the melodramatic unities demand an espousal with the interesting spirit we have called back to life. They have a way, at the same time, of ignoring Aunt Mims. You will, I am sure, forgive me if I say that it is the figure of that good lady which sticks last in my memory.”
Still he did not answer.
“I will put my point,” I continued, growing a little angry—“I will put my point, as you seem to ask it, with all the delicacy I can. You drew an analogy between—between some one and that broken cabbage yonder. The sentiment is unexceptionable; only in France they consider those things weeds.”
“Do they?” he said coolly. “We don’t.”