“Oh, if it is a she, it is all right.”
“I don't know. She has quarrelled with me; but give me a little time. Here! have a glass of sherry and a biscuit, while I try it on.”
Having thus muffled Cartwright, this man of the world opened his window and looked out. The crowd had followed the captured dogcart, so he had the street to himself. He beckoned to Phoebe, and after considerable hesitation she opened her window.
“Phoebe,” said he, in tones of tender regret, admirably natural and sweet, “I shall never offend you again; so forgive me this once. I have given that girl up.”
“Not you,” said Phoebe, sullenly.
“Indeed I have. After our quarrel, I started to propose to her; but I had not the heart; I came back and left her.”
“Time will show. If it is not her, it will be some other, you false, heartless villain.”
“Come, I say, don't be so hard on me in trouble. I am going to prison.”
“So I suppose.”
“Ah! but it is worse than you think. I am only taken for a paltry thirty pounds or so.”