Mr. Cassell paused again, then taking a flower from his lappel, bit it savagely, and asked:
“Have they any daughters?” as if it was the last question she might expect from him.
“No, they have only one child—a little boy—named Frank, after his uncle, Judge Cartoneau.”
Cassell did not appear at all interested in the name of the little boy, but I was intensely so, and leaned in the door to hear more, but, unfortunately, they had passed down the room out of hearing, while Miss Gertrude and her beau came again into audience. They were still on the subject of the excursion, and Mr. Berton was verging towards the sentimental, while Miss Gertrude was encouraging him with all the art she could command.
“I’ll vow I didn’t, Miss Gerty; I sat apart almost the whole night, thinking of you.”
“Why, Mr. Berton! Ella told me you were perfectly devoted to Miss Withers.”
“Withers, indeed! she’s perfectly horrid; but did you think enough of me to inquire what I did?”
“Of course, I——” Her remarks were broken off, as far as we were concerned, by the entrance of the gentlemen from the dining room. We tried to dodge, and get away, but two of them caught us, and holding us by the ears, asked our names—which question seems to be, with most people, a test of a child’s intelligence. To answer it was a task I dreaded more than Hercules did the Augean stables. My name, short as it was, seemed to stretch into a length equal to the King of Siam’s whenever I had to pronounce it; and I have often blessed the man who invented cards. There being no escape now, we drawled out, respectively, “John Smith” and “Lulie Mayland,” and were released, one of our captors remarking as we scampered off:
“Smith, you and Mayland ought to raise them up for each other. They will make a fine match one of these days.”
I fully forgave him for asking my name, and earnestly wished he might be a prophet.