“You sounds very tempting,” murmured Peggy, throwing her skirt over her head—for a drizzle was beginning—and walking slower and slower.
Then he made hot love to her, and pressed her hard to name the day.
She coquetted with the question till they came near the mouth of a dark lane, called Lovers' Walk; then, as he insisted on an answer, she hung her head bashfully, and coughed a little cough. At which preconcerted signal a huge policeman sprang out of the lane and collared Mr. Green.
On this Peggy, who was all Lie from head to heel, uttered a little scream of dismay and surprise.
Mr. Green laughed.
“Well, you are a downy one,” said he. “I'll marry you all the more for thus.”
The detective put his hands suddenly inside the policeman's, caught him by the bosom with his right hand by way of fulcrum; and with his left by the chin, which he forced violently back, and gave him a slight Cornish trip at the same moment; down went the policeman on the back of his head a fearful crack. Green then caught the astonished Peggy round the neck, kissed her lips violently, and fled like the wind; removed all traces of his personal identity, and up to London by the train in the character of a young swell, with a self-fitting eyeglass and a long moustache the colour of his tender mistress's eyebrow: tow.
From town he wrote to her, made her a formal offer of marriage; and gave her an address to write to “should she at any time think more kindly of him and of his sincere affection.”
I suppose he specified sincere because it was no longer sincere: he hurled the offer into Musgrove Cottage by way of an apple of discord—at least so I infer from the memorandum, with which he retired at present from the cash hunt.
“Mr. Hardie has the stiff, I think: but, if so, it is planted somewhere—doesn't carry it about him; my Peggy is his mistress: nothing to be done till they split.”