"Let them. A laugh will do them good, and you no harm. How can it matter to you?"
"True. It cannot. And after all to be laughed at one must be talked about. And to be talked about means to create a sensation. And I should like to create a sensation before I die. Yes, Sir Penthony,"—with a determined air,—"you shall have a seat in my carriage to-day."
"And how about to-morrow?"
"To-morrow probably some other fair lady will take pity on you. It would be much too slow,"—mischievously—"to expect you to go driving with your wife every day."
"I don't think I can see it in that light. Cecil,"—coming to her side, and with a sudden though gentle boldness, taking her in his arms,—"when are you going to forgive me and take me to your heart?"
"What is it you want, you tiresome man?" asks Cecil, with a miserable attempt at a frown.
"Your love," replies he, kissing the weak-minded little pucker off her forehead and the pretended pout from her lips, without this time saying, "by your leave," or "with your leave."
"And when you have it, what then?"
"I shall be the happiest man alive."
"Then be the happiest man alive," murmurs she, with tears in her eyes, although the smile still lingers round her lips.