“No,” said she, “but I am wonderfully good-natured. I forgive you what is the hardest thing in the world to forgive!”
“Oh! if you would but be my friend,” cried he, warmly.
“What a want of tact there was in that speech, Major Stapylton!” said she, with a laugh; “but perhaps you wanted to reverse the line of our dear little poet, who tells of some one 'that came but for Friendship, and took away Love'!”
“How cruel you are in all this mockery of me!”
“Does not the charge of cruelty come rather ill from you?—you, who can afford to sport with the affections of poor village maidens. From the time of that 'Major bold of Halifax' the song tells of, I never heard your equal.”
“Could you prevail upon yourself to be serious for a few minutes?” said he, gravely.
“I think not,—at least not just now; but why should I make the attempt?”
“Because I would wish your aid in a serious contingency,—a matter in which I am deeply interested, and which involves probably my future happiness.”
“Ah, Major! is it possible that you are going to trifle with my feelings once more?”
“My dear Miss Dill, must I plead once more for a little mercy?”