“Humph! that is not a compliment to me.”
“Well, you are not conceited, are you?”
“Nor handsome.”
“You are handsome enough for me, at all events,” said Eunice coquettishly.
“What a charming compliment!” replied Crispin gayly; “for that I will give you a rose.”
“Hush! here comes my mother.”
But Crispin, alas! had not heard the warning, and, having plucked the finest rose he could see, returned to the window, to find himself confronted by the gaudy figure of The Parrot, whose beady eyes sparkled maliciously as he approached.
“What! a rose for me, dear Mr. Crispin?” she said, stretching out her hand, in which Crispin was unwillingly compelled to place his flower; “how kind of you! The young men of to-day are gallant after all. Look, Eunice, is not this flower charming? almost as charming as you are, Mr. Crispin. The Rose of Sharon—oh, Shiraz—you see I’ve read your book. Now, I have no time to talk, my dear Mr. Crispin, so you must go away for the present at all events. We will meet at luncheon, and if you are very good you may bring me in another rose.”
Mrs. Dengelton, having thus vanquished the enemy, disappeared with her daughter and shut the window, upon which poor Crispin walked away in a rage.
“Old cat!” he said, which was certainly neither polite nor poetical.