“You make my life quite miserable, Tryphie, you do, ’pon my honour. You’re the most ungracious—”
“There’s pretty language to use to a lady, sir,” cried Tryphie, speaking as if in an angry fit. “Say I’m the most disgraceful at once, sir.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean that,” said Tom; “I meant ungracious and unyielding.”
“Of course, sir. Pretty words to apply to a lady.”
“Bother!” cried Tom. “I never looked upon you as a lady.”
“Thank you, sir,” she said, making him a most profound curtsey.
“Well, you know what I mean,” grumbled Tom; “I always think of you as Cousin Tryphie, whom I—there,” he whispered, “I will say it—I love with all my heart.”
“Bosh!” exclaimed Tryphie.
“There’s pretty language to use to a gentleman,” retorted Tom.
“I never look upon you as a gentleman,” said Tryphie in her turn; and she darted a mischievous look at him.