“No, no, Dick dear. Don’t ask me. Let me tell father all about it.”
“What?” he cried.
“Let me tell father all about it, and I’m sure he’ll be pleased.”
“My dear little Daisy, how well you are named,” he cried, playfully; and as he looked lovingly down upon her, the foolish girl began to compare him with the lover of her mother’s choice—a man who was nearly always blackened with his labours, and heavy and rough spoken, while here was Richard Glaire professing that he worshipped her, and looking, in her eyes, so handsome in his fashionably-cut blue coat with the rosebud in the button-hole, and wearing patent leather boots as tight as the lemon gloves upon his well-formed hands.
“I can’t help my name,” she said, coquettishly.
“I wouldn’t have it changed for the world, my little pet,” he whispered, playing with her dimpled chin; “only you are as fresh as a daisy.”
“What do you mean, Dick?” she said, nestling to him.
“Why you are so young and innocent. Look here, my darling: don’t you see how I’m placed? My mother wants me to marry Eve.”
“But you don’t really, really, really, care the least little bit for her, do you, Mr Richard?”
“‘Mr Richard!’” reproachfully.