“Indeed, I shall do no such thing,” said Fin, sharply, and becoming more red—“why should I?”
“Because it makes me so happy,” said Pratt. “I thought it was to be he.”
“Then you ought to be ashamed of yourself,” said Fin. “A nice feeling of respect you must have for me, to couple me with that scented dandy.”
“Finetta, don’t be hard upon me,” gasped Pratt—“I can’t talk now. If I had you in a witness-box I could go ahead, but I feel now as if I were going to lose my case.”
“What stuff are you talking?” said Fin, whose breast was panting.
“I was trying to tell you that I loved you with my whole heart,” said Pratt, earnestly; “even as I learned to love you down in Cornwall, when I was such a poor, miserable beggar that I wouldn’t have told you for the world.”
“And now you’re in Jumbles versus Hankey, and the great cotton case.”
“Why, how did you know?” cried Pratt.
“I always read the law reports in the Times” said Fin, demurely.
Pratt choked; he felt blind; then the railings seemed to be dancing with the trees, and the little children to be transformed into cherubs, attended by angels, with triumphant perambulating cars. He felt as if he wanted to do something frantic; and it was a minute before he came to himself, and could see that the tears were running down Fin’s cheeks.