“Then you will never get much,” she thought. “The dregs are always bitter.”
“There can be no dregs to the nectar in question.”
“And the last drop always goes to the head. I have heard it asserted upon authority. Think of the scandal—the butler—oh, Heaven!”
“The intoxication would make me but tread the air. I should walk right over the butler’s head. Where did you get that ring?”
“Is it not lovely? It was” (heaving a profound sigh) “the last gift of poor dear Mr. Pendleton.”
“Indeed! Well, under the circumstances, perhaps you will not mind removing it and wearing that of another unfortunate,” and he placed one knee on the chair over which she leaned and produced a ring.
“Not at all. What a beauty! How did you know that the ruby was my favourite stone?” And she bent her body backward, under pretence of holding the stone up to the light.
“But you have a number of rubies and pearls in your possession, of which I consider myself the rightful owner. Shall I have to call in the law to give me mine own?”
“The pearls are sharp, and the rubies may be paste. I have the best of the bargain.”
“I am a connoisseur on the subject of precious stones—of precious articles of all sorts, in fact. What an outrageous coquette you are! What is the use of keeping a man in misery?”