For a moment Donald was struck dumb. He was not only astonished, but he was filled with admiration. He liked the girl’s “pluck,” and she looked “jolly pretty.”
“And w-w-what’s that?” he stammered almost meekly.
“Why,” said Chris, becoming redder than ever, and looking at him half-shyly, half-defiantly, “why, marry Mr. Bradfield!”
By this time Donald had given up all thoughts of contradicting her. Where was the use? So he sat down again upon the table, and stared at her stupidly.
“Oh!” said he at last in a feeble manner, and in a tone of reflection—“oh! so that’s what you think, is it?”
“Yes, and what I think further is that you’re both very silly.”
“By Jove!” said Donald softly, “I think we are!”
“And as you agree with me so entirely upon this point,” said Chris, as she skipped over the piles of material which lay on the floor, and made for the door, “you won’t be surprised when I tell you that if you dare to come and worry me any more, I shall tell Mr. Bradfield. And perhaps you know whether you would like that!”
With which tremendous menace, Chris gave him a little curt bow, and ran quickly out of the room, leaving him in a state of stupefaction.