"Not exactly," said Phyllida, "indeed he was so good-natured that I promised—at least I half promised to do so."
"Confusion take him," swore Vernon, "for a prating, meddlesome, tailor-made gentleman. Harkee! I'll not have myself discussed by Mr. Horace Ripple. I dare swear he patted your hands, eh? called you his pretty dear, made old man's love, eh? A plague on his impudence!"
Phyllida shrank from her lover's wrath.
"Indeed, sir, I vow he did nothing of the kind. He behaved with some of that propriety for which I could wish in my Amor." Phyllida remembered a young woman talking something like this in the first volume of The Fair Inconstant. Vernon could not keep back a smile. "I doubt I'm not inclined to hear you farther."
Vernon began to chuckle.
"And let me tell you, sir, your behaviour becomes you very ill, and moreover I told him your name, and the milk's spilt, and 'tis useless to cry over spilt milk as all the world knows."
A tear-drop trembled in each corner of Phyllida's eyes, making them seem more clearly blue, as crystals that surround great sapphires enhance their beauty.
"Sweet indiscretion," began Vernon, who having been politick enough to conceal his true name, could afford to be generous.
A very faint sob was the sole response.
"Nay, prithee, dear one," he continued, catching hold of a tremulous hand, "let's have no quarrels at our first ball; I bear you no malice."