He replied with the quietest affirmative.
“Yes? What does ‘Yes!’ mean?” She lifted her chest to shake out the dead-alive monosyllable, as he had done. “Why are you so singular this morning, Evan? Have I offended you? You are so touchy!”
The slur on his reputation for sensitiveness induced the young man to attempt being more explicit.
“I mean,” he said, hesitating; “why, we must part. We shall not see each other every day. Nothing more than that.” And away went the cheerful martyr in sublimest mood.
“Oh! and that makes you, sorry?” A shade of archness was in her voice.
The girl waited as if to collect something in her mind, and was now a patronizing woman.
“Why, you dear sentimental boy! You don’t suppose we could see each other every day for ever?”
It was perhaps the cruelest question that could have been addressed to the sentimental boy from her mouth. But he was a cheerful martyr!
“You dear Don Doloroso!” she resumed. “I declare if you are not just like those young Portugals this morning; and over there you were such a dear English fellow; and that’s why I liked you so much! Do change! Do, please, be lively, and yourself again. Or mind; I’ll call you Don Doloroso, and that shall be your name in England. See there!—that’s—that’s? what’s the name of that place? Hoy! Mr. Skerne!” She hailed the boatswain, passing, “Do tell me the name of that place.”
Mr. Skerne righted about to satisfy her minutely, and then coming up to Evan, he touched his hat, and said: