"She was just like Venus, or—or some of those other goddesses," says Mr. Potts, vaguely.
"I can well believe it," returns Stafford; "but don't let emotion master you. 'There's naught, no doubt, so much the spirit calms as rum and true religion.' Try a little of the former."
"There's nothing in life I wouldn't do for that girl,—nothing, I declare to you, Stafford," goes on Potts, who is quite in tears by this time; "but she wouldn't look at me."
Luttrell and Philip are enraged; Stafford and the others are in roars.
"Wouldn't she, Potts?" says Stafford, with a fine show of sympathy. "Who knows? Cheer up, old boy, and remember women never know their own minds at first. She may yet become alive to your many perfections, and know her heart to be all yours. Think of that. And why should she not?" says Sir Penthony, with free encouragement. "Where could she get a better fellow? 'Faint heart,' you know, Potts. Take my advice and pluck up spirit, and go in for her boldly. Throw yourself at her feet."
"I will," says Mr. Potts, ardently.
"To-morrow," advises Sir Penthony, with growing excitement.
"Now," declares Potts, with wild enthusiasm, making a rush for the door.
"Not to-night; wait until to-morrow," Sir Penthony says, who has not anticipated so ready an acceptance of his advice, getting between him and the door. "In my opinion she has retired to her room by this; and it really would be rather sketchy, you know,—eh?"
"What do you say, Luttrell?" asks Potts, uncertainly. "What would you advise?"