She stirred; her eye-lids fluttered. She stared up at me for a moment with undisguised affection; then the fear of tenderness returned. She pulled herself together, rubbing her knuckles in her eyes and yawning.
“Gee up, old hoss. This ain’t a bloomin’ cab-stand. You’re not home yet.”
“You fell asleep, my dear, so I waited for you.”
“Well, I shan’t pay you,” she laughed; “it’s not fair. Pray what did you think you were doing?”
“Enjoying myself.”
“There’s the difference; you like to crawl, I like to hurtle. You’re a tortoise; I’m a razzle-dazzle. We’re an ill-matched pair. Living in Pope Lane has made you pontifical. Oh, Dannie, in ten years your tummy’ll be bulgy and your head’ll be bald. Pope Lane’ll have done it. I know what I’ve always missed about you now.”
“Something horrid? Let’s have it.”
“A cowl. You ought to have been a monk in Florence, painting naked angels in impossible meadows.”
“So kind of you. Religion mixed with impropriety! If there was someone to relieve me of my conscience, it wouldn’t be half bad. But I don’t live at Pope Lane any longer. You have the honor of sitting beside Sir Dante Cardover of Woadley Hall, Ransby, of which, you little wretch, you are soon to be mistress.”
“That so? Sorry I spoke. Jump out and crank up the engine. It’s coming on again—you’re going to have the sentimentals, and you’re going to have ’em bad.”