“No, sir,” said she, in the same quiet, grave fashion.
“What's the reason, young lady,” said I, somewhat sternly, “that you persist in saying 'sir' on every occasion that you address me? The ease of that intercourse that should subsist between us is marred by this Americanism. The pleasant interchange of thought loses the charming feature of equality. How is this?”
“I am not at liberty to say, sir.”
“You are not at liberty to say, young lady?” said I, severely. “You tell me distinctly that your manner towards me is based upon a something which you must not reveal?”
“I am sure, sir, you have too much generosity to press me on a subject of which I cannot, or ought not to speak.”
That fatal Burgundy had got into my brains, while the princely delusion was uppermost; and if I had been submitted to the thumbscrew now, I would have died one of the Orleans family.
“Mademoiselle,” said I, grandly, “I have been fortunately, or unfortunately, brought up in a class that never tolerates contradiction. When we ask, we feel that we order.”
“Oh, sir, if you but knew the difficulty I am in—”
“Take courage, my dear creature,” said I, blending condescension with something warmer. “You will at least be reposing your confidence where it will be worthily bestowed.”
“But I have promised—not exactly promised; but Mrs. Keats enjoined me imperatively not to betray what she revealed to me.”