‘Oh, you terrible old man!’ cried the facetious Merry to herself. ‘What a perfectly hideous monster to be wandering about churchyards in the broad daylight, frightening people out of their wits! Don’t come here, Griffin, or I’ll go away directly.’
Mr Jonas was the Griffin. He sat down upon the grass at her side, in spite of this warning, and sulkily inquired:
‘What’s my uncle been a-talking about?’
‘About you,’ rejoined Merry. ‘He says you’re not half good enough for me.’
‘Oh, yes, I dare say! We all know that. He means to give you some present worth having, I hope. Did he say anything that looked like it?’
‘That he didn’t!’ cried Merry, most decisively.
‘A stingy old dog he is,’ said Jonas. ‘Well?’
‘Griffin!’ cried Miss Mercy, in counterfeit amazement; ‘what are you doing, Griffin?’
‘Only giving you a squeeze,’ said the discomfited Jonas. ‘There’s no harm in that, I suppose?’
‘But there is great deal of harm in it, if I don’t consider it agreeable,’ returned his cousin. ‘Do go along, will you? You make me so hot!’