“I hate him,” cried Cynthia, angrily. “He’s a great stupid coward.”
“No, you don’t, Cynthy; and you don’t think he is a coward.”
“Well, perhaps I don’t hate him very much, and perhaps I don’t think him a very great coward; but, oh! Harry, if I had been a man, do you think I would have allowed that miserable—miserable—”
“Design for a wall-paper or fresco?” suggested Artingale.
“Yes, yes, yes,” cried Cynthia, laughing and clapping her hands with childlike delight. “That’s it: what a grand idea! Oh, Harry, how clever you are!”
She looked up at him admiringly, and he smiled, and—Well, of course, that was sure to follow. Young lovers are so very foolish, and it came natural to them to tangle one another up in their arms, and for Cynthia’s nose to be hidden by Artingale’s moustache.
Then they grew sage, as the French call it, once more, and Artingale spoke—
“That’s right, little pet, think so if you can; but I wish, for your sake, I were—”
“Were what, sir?”
“Clever. Do you know, Cynthy, I often think what a good job it was that nature had the property valued before I was launched.”