“For shame,” I said, “to speak in so disrespectful a way.”
“But it does not much matter,” she said; “for he would have been afraid to climb up, when he found out really how high it was.”
“Don’t talk stuff!” I said; “he would get up if it were twice as high, for my sake. Why, look how Leander swam the Hellespont.”
“And I say,” cried Clara—laughing, and seeming in the highest of glee, which was too bad—“how cold and shivering he must have been when he got across. Bo-o-o-h?” she said, shuddering, “what a cold frog of a lover! I shouldn’t have liked that.”
“No,” I said, “you have no romance in your composition.”
“Haven’t I,” she said, “you don’t know; but I’m not so head over ears in love as you are.”
“Perhaps not,” I said, spitefully; “because you have no chance.”
“Pooh!” said Clara. “Why, I might have had Achille long before you came, if I had liked.”
“Perhaps, miss,” I exclaimed, with nothing more than reasonable anger, “the next time you mention that gentleman’s name you will prefix the Monsieur.”
“Certainly, ma’am,” said Clara, aggravating me with her mock courtesy.