“But, Sylvia—”
“But me no buts, or you’ll get my goat. Understand my meaning, Mr. Stevenson?”
“Yes, only—”
“The discussion’s closed.”
“Are we engaged?”
“I don’t know. We’ll have to see our agents about that.”
“Oh, don’t rag. Marriage is not a joke. You are a most extraordinary girl.”
“Thanks for the discount. I shall be thirty in three months, don’t forget. Talking of the advantages of rouge, you might get rid of some of yours before supper, if you don’t mind.”
“Are we engaged?” Arthur repeated, firmly.
“No, the engagement ring and the marriage-bells will be pealed simultaneously. You’re as free as Boccaccio, old son.”