“I have about as much of this as I am likely to bear well from my distinguished stepmother,” said he, roughly, “so don't push my patience further.”
“What do you say to our little 'salon' now?” said she. “Have you ever seen ferns and variegated ivy disposed more tastefully?”
“I wish—I wish”—stammered he out, and then seemed unable to go on.
“And what do you wish?”
“I suppose I must not say it. You might feel offended besides.”
“Not a bit, Jack. I am sure it never could be your intention to offend me, and a mere blunder could not do so.”
“Well, I 'll go round and tell you what it is I wish,” and with this he entered the house and passed on into the drawing-room, and taking his place at one side of the fire, while she stood at the other, said seriously, “I was wishing, Julia, that you were less of a coquette.”
“You don't mean that?” said she, roguishly, dropping her long eyelashes, as she looked down immediately after.
“I mean it seriously, Julia. It is your one fault; but it is an immense one.”
“My dear Jack,” said she, very gravely, “you men are such churls that you are never grateful for any attempts to please you except they be limited strictly to yourselves. You would never have dared to call any little devices, by which I sought to amuse or interest you, coquetry, so long as they were only employed on your own behalf. My real offence is that I thought the world consisted of you and some others.”