“Yes, of course it is,” began Coleman.
“Then write as I desire, sir,” continued Lawless authoritatively; “I ought to know my own feelings best, I imagine; I feel love-lorn, and 'love-lorn' it shall be.”
“Oh! certainly,” replied Coleman, slightly offended, “anything you please, 'Your devotedly attached and lovelorn admirer'; here, sign it yourself, 'George Lawless'.”
“Bravo!” said Lawless, relapsing into his accustomed good humour the moment the knotty point of the insertion of “love-lorn” had been carried; “if that isn't first-rate, I'm a Dutchman; why, Freddy, boy, where did you learn it? how does it all come into your head?”
“Native talent,” replied Coleman, “combined with a strong and lively appreciation of the sublime and beautiful, chiefly derived from my maternal grandmother, whose name was Burke.”
“That wasn't the Burke who wrote a book about it, was it?” asked Lawless.
“Ah! no, not exactly,” replied Coleman; “she would have been, I believe, had she been a man.”
“Very likely,” returned Lawless, whose attention was absorbed in folding, sealing and directing the important letter, “Miss Fairlegh”. “Now, if she does but regard my suit favourably.”
“You'll be suited with a wife,” punned Coleman.
“But suppose she should say 'No,'” continued Lawless, musing.