“My mother, I fear, has old-fashioned notions—but I am sure if you went to her dressmaker—you—you would look different.”
“Should you like me to look different then—you wouldn’t recognize me, you know, if I went to her dressmaker.”
“I like you just as you are,” he said, with an air of great condescension.
“I am overcome,” I said, humbly; “but—but—what is this story I hear about Miss Angela Grey? A lady, I see in the papers, who dances at—the Gaiety, is it not? Are you sure she will permit you to make this declaration without her knowledge?”
He became petrified.
“Who has told you about her?” he asked.
“No one,” I said. “Jean said your father was angry with you on account of a horse of that name, but I chanced to see it in the list of attractions at the Gaiety—so I conclude it is not a horse, and if you are engaged to her, I don’t think it is quite right of you to try and break my heart.”
“Oh, Evangeline—Miss Travers”—he spluttered. “I am greatly attached to you—the other was only a pastime—a—oh! we men you know—young and—and—run after—have our temptations you know. You must think nothing about it. I will never see her again, except just finally to say good-bye. I promise you.”
“Oh! I could not do a mean thing like that, Mr. Montgomerie,” I said. “You must not think of behaving so on my account—I am not altogether heartbroken, you know—in fact I rather think of getting married myself.”
He bounded up.