"I don't think Mr. Amor would be very willing, and I'm sure my mamma would be monstrous vexed."
"Nonsense," said the Beau, "nonsense! You won't be happy, till you've packed yourself into a post-chaise smelling vilely of stale tobacco and horse-cloths. And when you've found some Fleet Street parson to marry you, you'll wish for a fine wedding and a bride-cake, and your tenants cheering and holloaing at the lodge-gates."
Here the Beau showed himself too unfamiliar with the mind of a young woman. The idea of eloping had never yet entered that dainty head of glistening chestnut curls; but from that moment Phyllida began to play with the notion.
"Come, come," he went on, "let's have no more of clandestine courtship. Heiresses and dace both attract by reason of their silver: libertines and pike have much in common. Moreover, you must think of your mother."
"I doubt you don't know my mamma very well. She swears I'm but a child, but I'm not a child, am I, sir?"
Mr. Ripple put up his monocle and solemnly stared at his fair impenitent.
"You are not a very old woman."
"Besides, my mamma doesn't understand the meaning of love."
"My dear young lady," protested the Beau, "that is a very common error with the young. Don't you think that shaded lane once lisped to her footsteps? Don't you think April once broke as sweet for her?"
"Well, if it did," argued Phyllida, "she's forgotten all she ever knew."