“Well, if you really—really, you know—would not mind,” hesitated Laura Bray, who, in spite of the rain, was in no hurry to bring the interview to a close.
“Wouldn’t mind? Of course not!” echoed Charley, whose bold eyes were fixed upon Laura Bray’s companion, who timidly returned his salute, and then shrank back, as he again raised his little deer-stalker hat from its curly throne. “Now, then,” he exclaimed, “what’s it to be?—shawls and Sairey Gamps of gingham and tape?”
“No, no, Mr Vining! How droll you are!” laughed the beauty. “But if you really wouldn’t mind—really, you know—”
“I tell, you, Miss, Bray, that, I, shall, only, be, too, happy,” said Charley, in measured tones.
“Then, if you wouldn’t mind riding to the Elms, and asking them to send the brougham, I should be so much obliged!”
“All right!” cried Charley, turning his mare. “Max has only just left me.”
“But it seems such a shame to send you away through all this rain!” said Laura loudly.
“Fudge!” laughed Charley, as, putting his mare at the hedge in front, she skimmed over it like a bird, and her owner galloped across country, to the great disadvantage of several crops of clover.
“What a pity!” sighed Laura to herself, as she watched the retreating form. “And the rain will be over directly. I wonder whether he’ll come back!”
“Do you think we need wait?” said her companion gently. “The rain has ceased now, and the sun is breaking; through the clouds.”