Amy was helping him to the sofa, laid him down, and sat by him on the old footstool; he put his arm round her neck, and she rested her head on his shoulder.
‘Well, Amy,’ I give you joy, my small woman,’ said he, talking the more nonsense because of the fullness in his throat; ‘and I hope you give me credit for amazing self-denial in so doing.’
‘O Charlie—dear Charlie!’ and she kissed him, she could not blush more, poor little thing, for she had already reached her utmost capability of redness—‘it is no such thing.’
‘No such thing? What has turned you into a turkey-cock all at once or what made him nearly squeeze off my unfortunate fingers? No such thing, indeed!’
‘I mean—I mean, it is not that. We are so very young, and I am so silly.’
‘Is that his reason?’
‘You must make me so much better and wiser. Oh, if I could but be good enough!’
For that matter, I don’t think any one else would be good enough to take care of such a silly little thing. But what is the that, that it is, or is not?’
‘Nothing now, only when we are older. At least, you know papa has not heard it.’
‘Provided my father gives his consent, as the Irish young lady added to all her responses through the marriage service. But tell me all—all you like, I mean—for you will have lovers’ secrets now, Amy.’