"How delightful! How pleased mamma will be! Marmaduke, I forgive you. But you must not say slighting things of me again.
"Slighting things of you, my own darling! Cannot you see when I am in fun? I only wanted to make you pout and look like the baby you are. In reality I think you the brightest, dearest, sweetest, et cetera."
Thus my mind is relieved, and I feel I can wait with calmness the desirable end that is evidently in store for Dora.
I am so elated by Marmaduke's concurrence with my hopes that I actually kiss him, and, re-seating myself, consent to take the butt-end of the gun upon my lap and hold it carefully, while he rubs the barrels up and down with a dreadfully dirty piece of scarlet flannel soaked in oil.
When, however, this monotonous process has been continued for ten minutes or so, and I find I cannot flatter myself with the belief that it will soon be over, I lose sight of the virtue called patience.
"Do you think they would ever grow brighter than they are now?" I venture mildly. "If you rubbed them for years, Marmaduke, I don't believe they could be further improved: do you?"
"Well, indeed, perhaps you are right. I think they will do now," replies he, regarding his new toy with a fond eye; and then almost with regret, as though loath to part with it, he replaces it in its flannel berth.
"Bye the bye, Phyllis, I had a letter from a friend of mine this morning—Chandos—telling me of his return to England, and I have written inviting him here."
"Have you? I hope he is nice. Is he Mr. or Captain Chandos, or what?"
"Neither: he is Lord Chandos."