She was sitting at the table, her elbows propped on it, her chin on her fists, and, so disposed, she put out her tongue at him.
“Gingumbobs!” she said; and that was all.
“And, in short,” said he, rising—for he too was seated—“I think I’ll say good day to you.”
Sobered at once, she jumped to her feet, and intercepted him. “What have I said, sure? Don’t never mind a silly wench. I’ll do what you want of me—there!”
He stood arrested, but as if unwillingly.
“I doubt your capacity, child; or your art to curb your tongue. A fig for that when Moll is Moll; but once she shapes herself to my designs, good speech must go with good looks.”
She seemed as if she would cry.
“George, I’ll curb it. I did but jest with you. Haven’t I learned my speaking parts, and said them to the letter, too, without one extra oath?” She was stroking his arms up and down; her fingers wandered to his hands, and gave themselves softly to that refuge; her lifted eyes were full of azure pain. “Tell me what you desire of me,” she said with pretty wooing.
“Why, discretion first and last,” he answered. “Have you got it?”
“Haven’t I! Why, look how particular I can be in the choice of my friends.”