“No, of course you did not, dear,” said Mary mockingly. “As if it was not only too easy to tell.”
“But, Mary dear, this is too serious to trifle about. You have not given him any encouragement?”
“Only been as sharp and disagreeable to him as I could.”
“But how has he shown it?”
“Lots of ways. Held my poor little tiny hand in his great big ugly paw, where it looked like a splash of cream in a trencher, and forgot to let it go when he was talking to me; looked down at me as if he were hungry, and I was something good to eat—like an ogre who wanted to pick my bones; sighed like the wind in Logan cave, and when I dragged my hand away, all crushed and crumpled up, and without a bit of feeling left in it, he begged my pardon, and looked ashamed of himself.”
“And what did you say?”
“I? I said, ‘Oh!’”
“That all?”
“No; I said, ‘you’ve quite spoiled that hand, Mr Trevithick,’ and then the monster looked frightened of me.”
“I am very sorry—no, very glad, Mary,” said Claude thoughtfully, and looking her surprise.