“Mr. Richard,” said the other, reproachfully; “I thought it was to be Dick—your own Dick.”
“Oh, don’t—don’t—don’t talk like that,” sobbed the other. “Oh, I wish I really, really knew whether you meant it all.”
“Meant it all, Daisy! how can you be so cruel, when you know how dearly I love you? But come into the counting-house, and we can sit there and talk.”
“I can’t—I won’t!” said Daisy; “and you know you oughtn’t to ask me, Mr Richard. What would father say if he were to hear of it?”
“Father would only be too pleased,” whispered the young man, “for he believes in me, if you don’t, Daisy. He’d like you to be my own beautiful darling little wife, that I should make a lady.”
“But, do you really, really mean it, Mr Richard?” said Daisy, with a hysterical sob.
“‘Really mean it! Mr Richard!’” said the young fellow, reproachfully. “Oh, Daisy, have you so mean an opinion of me? Do you take me for a contemptible liar?”
“Oh no, no, no,” sobbed the girl; “but they say—I always thought—I believed that you were engaged to Miss Eve.”
“A poor puny thing,” said Richard, in a contemptuous tone; “and besides, she’s my cousin.”
“But she thinks you love her,” said Daisy.