“Now, sir,” whispered Cynthia, “you must not speak loud. Tell me quietly.”
“May I sit down?”
“If that is enough room for you, sir. Now go on.”
Artingale would have thought the edge of a knife room enough, so that he could be near Cynthia, so he sat down in a very uncomfortable position, and received such a merry, mischievous look that he sighed with content.
“The fact is—oh, murder!”
“Hush, Harry! What is the matter?”
“Would it look rude if I were to cork my ears with glove-fingers, Cynthy?”
“Of course, sir! For shame! You have no soul for music.”
“Not a bit,” he whispered; “only when you warble one of those little ballads of yours, I shut my eyes and wish you were a brook.”
“Wish I were a what, you foolish boy?” whispered Cynthia, looking up at the great boy who towered over her.