“Oh, no, don’t tell me that; what good can there be in mystifying me?”
“I have no such intention, believe me. My cousin Baby, however I like and admire her, has no other place in my affection than a very charming girl who has lightened a great many dreary and tiresome hours, and made my banishment from the world less irksome than I should have found it without her.”
“And you are really not in love?”
“Not a bit of it!”
“Nor going to marry her either?”
“Not the least notion of it!—a fact. Baby and I are excellent friends, for the very reason that we were never lovers; we have had no petits jeux of fallings out and makings up; no hide-and-seek trials of affected indifference and real disappointments; no secrets, no griefs, nor grudges; neither quarrels nor keepsakes. In fact, we are capital cousins; quizzing every one for our own amusement; riding, walking, boating together; in fact, doing and thinking of everything save sighs and declarations; always happy to meet, and never broken-hearted when we parted. And I can only add, as a proof of my sincerity, that if you feel as I suspect you do from your questions, I’ll be your ambassador to the court of Gurt-na-Morra with sincere pleasure.”
“Will you really? Will you, indeed, Charley, do this for me? Will you strengthen my wishes by your aid, and give me all your influence with the family?”
I could scarcely help smiling at poor Sparks’s eagerness, or the unwarrantable value he put upon my alliance, in a case where his own unassisted efforts did not threaten much failure.
“I repeat it, Sparks, I’ll make a proposal for you in all form, aided and abetted by everything recommendatory and laudatory I can think of; I’ll talk of you as a Peninsular of no small note and promise; and observe rigid silence about your Welsh flirtation and your Spanish elopement.”
“You’ll not blab about the Dalrymples, I hope?”