“No, they still outrage sense by their plots. A man meets a woman quite by chance. She tells him a cock and bull story that any fool could see outrages probability; but he is captivated in a moment. He falls on his knees before her and vows that she has only to speak to make him the happiest of mortals. All this is, madam, I need scarcely say, quite monstrous and unnatural. Such a proceeding could not occur outside Bedlam.”
“This gentleman should be taught a lesson,” said Kitty to herself, as she watched Mr. Bates swaggering across the room. She became thoughtful for a moment, and then smiled—only for a second, however; then she became grave and her voice faltered as she said: “Sir, I protest that I never before knew—nay, felt—what real eloquence was—eloquence wedded to reason.”
“Nay, madam,” smirked Mr. Bates.
“'T is the truth, sir. May I hope that you will not think me too forward, if I venture to express a humble opinion, sir?” Her voice was low, and it certainly faltered more than before.
“I shall treasure that opinion, madam,” said Mr. Bates. That soft voice produced its impression upon him. He felt that he was in the presence of an amazingly fine woman.
“You will not be offended, sir, if I say that I feel it to be a great pity that one who has such eloquence at his command should spend his time merely repeating the phrases—the very inferior phrases—of others. The Senate, sir, should be your stage. You are not angry, sir?”
She had laid a hand upon his arm and was looking pleadingly up to his face.
“Angry?” cried Mr. Bates, patting her hand, at which she turned her eyes, modestly from his face to the ground.
“Angry? Nay, dear lady, you have but expressed what I have often thought.”
“I am so glad that you are not offended by my presumption, sir,” said Kitty, removing her hand—Mr. Bates did not seem willing to let it go. “If you were offended, I protest that I should be the most wretched of women.”