“It is as red as a capsicum,” said Ned.
Pamela burst out laughing. She sat up, her cheeks flushed, her brown hair ruffled on her forehead.
“Oh!” she cried, “you do not say pretty things at all; you are not like Mr Sherree-den.”
“No,” said the young man sadly. “And because I have not his readiness, I must lack his good fortune. Is that the moral of it? But I could be a willing pupil if you would be my tutor.”
“Is it so? I should punish and punish till you wearied of me. Say, then, like Mr Sherree-den, ‘Oh, mon bonté-moi!’ (he does not, you know, speak varee good French); ‘but here is a poor little sick fairy crumpled in a rose petal.’ Hélas! you could not have said that, you solemn man.”
“I could not, indeed; but I should have taken the poor little sick fairy and nursed her upon my heart.”
She looked up at him kindlily and, suddenly, pathetically—
“But I am not sick at all,” she said, “and you must not take my play to your heart.”
Thereat, foolish Ned, reading her words literally, missed his small chance.
“I never did,” he only answered stoutly. “I knew you were not asleep.”