“Come and light me,” he said.
“Nay,” she replied, “let science light you.”
“Science does—Ah, but science is nothing without a girl to set it going—Yes—Come on—now, don’t burn my precious nose.”
“Poor George!” cried Alice. “Does he want a ministering angel?”
He was half lying in a big arm chair.
“I do,” he replied. “Come on, be my box of soothing ointment. My matches are all loose.”
“I’ll strike it on my heel, eh? Now, rouse up, or I shall have to sit on your knee to reach you.”
“Poor dear—he shall beluxurious,” and the dauntless girl perched on his knee.
“What if I singe your whiskers—would you send an Armada? Aw—aw—pretty!—You do look sweet—doesn’t he suck prettily?”
“Do you envy me?” he asked, smiling whimsically.