"Nor you without me."
"Which is to be regretted. At least I should have had a clear half, which I haven't; so you have the best of it. And—I will not be followed about, and pried after, and made generally uncomfortable by any one."
"Who is prying after you?"
"You are."
"What do you mean, Cecil?" Haughtily.
"Just what I say. And, as I never so far forget myself as to call you by your Christian name without its prefix, I think you might have the courtesy to address me as Lady Stafford."
"Certainly, if you wish it."
"I do. Have you anything more to say?"
"Yes, more than——"
"Then pray defer it until to-morrow, as"—with a bare-faced attempt at a yawn—"I really cannot sit up any longer. Good-night, Sir Penthony."