“Oh!” said Mrs. Dangerfield, rising quickly.
“Yes, I want it more than ever I wanted anything in my life!”
Mrs. Dangerfield’s face was one flush; and she cried: “B-b-but it’s out of the question. I—I’m old enough to be your mother!”
“Now how?—I’m three years and seven months older than you,” said Sir James, taken aback.
“I shall be an old woman while you’re still quite young!” she protested.
“You won’t ever be old! You’re not the kind!” cried Sir James with some heat; and then with sudden understanding: “If that’s your only reason, why, that settles it!”
With that he picked her up and kissed her four times.
When he set her down and held her at arm’s length, gazing at her with devouring eyes, she gasped somewhat faintly: “Oh, James, you are—ever so much more—impetuous—than I thought. You gave me—no time.”
“Thank goodness, I took the Terror’s tip!” said Sir James.