Whether from the rebuff, or the reproach, or old feelings reviving, Harry was moved to go forward, and lay his hand on Susan’s shoulder and mutter something in her ear that softened her.
Polly thrust the notes into her bosom, and with a toss of her nose, as who should say, “Here’s nonsense they’re at again,” tapped Susan on the other shoulder, and said imperiously: “Come, Miss!”
Hurrying out a dozen sentences in one, Harry ended by suddenly kissing Susan’s cheek, and then Polly bore her away; and Harry, with great solemnity, said to Evan:
“’Pon my honour, I think I ought to! I declare I think I love that girl. What’s one’s family? Why shouldn’t you button to the one that just suits you? That girl, when she’s dressed, and in good trim, by Jove! nobody’d know her from a born lady. And as for grammar, I’d soon teach her that.”
Harry began to whistle: a sign in him that he was thinking his hardest.
“I confess to being considerably impressed by the maid Wheedle,” said Raikes.
“Would you throw yourself away on her?” Evan inquired.
Apparently forgetting how he stood, Mr. Raikes replied:
“You ask, perhaps, a little too much of me. One owes consideration to one’s position. In the world’s eyes a matrimonial slip outweighs a peccadillo. No. To much the maid might wheedle me, but to Hymen! She’s decidedly fresh and pert—the most delicious little fat lips and cocky nose; but cease we to dwell on her, or of us two, to! one will be undone.”
Harry burst into a laugh: “Is this the T.P. for Fallowfield?”