“Richard, you were ashamed of me, and wouldn’t own me,” said Daisy, bursting into tears.
“Oh, what a silly, hard-hearted, cruel little blossom it is,” said Richard, trying to console her, but only to be pushed away. “All I did and said was to save bother, and not upset the old girl. That’s why I want it all kept quiet. Here, as I tell you, I could be waiting for you over at Chorley, we could pop into the mail as it came through, off up to London, be married by licence, and then the old folks would be in a bit of a temper for a week, and as pleased as Punch afterwards.”
“Oh, no, Richard, I couldn’t, couldn’t do that,” said the girl, panting with excitement.
“Yes, you could,” he said, “and come back after a trip to Paris, eh, Daisy? where you should have the run of the fashions. What would they all say when you came back a regular lady, and I took you to the house?”
“Oh, Dick, dear Dick, don’t ask me,” moaned the poor girl, whose young head was in a whirl. “I couldn’t—indeed I couldn’t be so wicked.”
“So wicked! no, of course not,” said Richard, derisively—“a wicked little creature. Oh, dear, what would become of you if you married Richard Glaire!”
“You’re teasing me,” she said, “and it’s very cruel of you.”
“Horribly,” said Richard. “But you will come, Daisy?”
“I couldn’t, I couldn’t,” faltered the girl.
“Yes, you could, you little goose.”