“Well, I know, ma,” exclaimed Fin, “it’s rude of me; but I’m naturally rude. I’ve got what Aunt Matty would call the mark of the beast on me, and it makes me wicked.”
“Tut, tut, tut! Fin, my dear,” said Lady Rea, drawing her child to her, till Fin lay with her head resting against her, but with her face averted. “Now, come, tell me all about it. I don’t like you to have secrets from me.”
“Well, ma, he met me, and begged for five minutes’ interview.”
“Well, my dear?”
“Well, ma, I told him it was of no use, for I knew what he was going to say.”
“Oh, Fin, my dear child, I’m afraid they neglected your etiquette very much at school.”
“No, they didn’t, ma,” said Fin, with her eyes twinkling—“they were always sowing me with it; but I was stony ground, as Aunt Matty would say, and it never took root. Oh, ma, if you had only seen what a donkey he looked!—and he smelt all over the room, just like one of Rimmel’s young men. Then,” continued Fin, speaking fast and excitedly, “he went on talking stuff—said he’d lay his title and fortune at my feet; that he’d give the world to win my heart, and I told him I hadn’t got one; said he should wait patiently, and kept on talk, talk, talk—all stuff that he had evidently been learning up for the occasion; and I’d have given anything to have been able to pull his ears and rumple his hair, only he might have thought it rude.”
“Oh yes, my dear,” said mamma, innocently.
“And at last I said I didn’t think I should ever accept any one, for I hated men; and then he sighed, and looked at me side-wise, and wanted to take my hand; and I ran out of the room, and that’s all.”
“But, Fin, my dear—”