“His name’s a very honorable and ancient one, he’s Sir Robin McTart, twenty-third Baronet!”
“Peggy!”
If a thunderbolt had fallen betwixt Peggy’s red shoes and his brown ones, Percy could not have been more astounded.
“Well, Sir?” returns she, scarce controlling the twitching of her lips.
“A milk-sop, molly-coddle! Oh Peggy, an you drop me, take a better man! Peg, you’re a-joking. Not that bumpkin! I’ve never seen him, but report has it he’s afeard if one of his own dogs looks him in the eye and bays!”
“Sir Percy, have you finished?” inquires Peggy with dignity.
“No, have I not! By my soul, Peg, an you pitch me to hell for that jackanapes, I’ll go to hell as fast as wine and dice, and cards and brawls, and usurers, and all that sort of crew can carry me! I’ll up to London, and one morning when your brother sends you word he’s found me with a rapier stuck in my throat, my pockets empty, and ‘Peggy’ writ on the scrap o’ paper a-lying over my heart, then you’ll believe Percy loved you!”
“Lud, Sir! Men are apt at such chatter, and a fortnight after, the vicar’s a-publishing their banns with the other lady!”
“Peg!” He takes her kerchief end, as it droops away from her pretty long throat, in his fingers; he looks down deep into her eyes; his voice shakes, so does his hand.
“Whatever betides, my bonny sweetheart, there’s only one that’ll ever have banns read with me, and that’s—” He takes her by surprise and by the shoulders, and squares her to the mirror in its niche.