"How—you—talk!"
"But—but—"
"Nonsense," exclaimed Lord Harrow's daughter. "You're head over ears in love with her, and she with you."
"What!" exclaimed the Poor Boy. "Do you mean that!"
"Mean it? Of course I do. And everybody knows it—except you two. I was in the village yesterday, and the people had heard that she was coming—to you—to you—and they were hanging wreaths in the windows as if for Christmas. When we drove through the village on our way here they lined the main street and cheered her."
"What did she do?"
"She was delighted. She thought they were cheering my father and me, and she said she was so glad that she had been asked to visit such wonderful distinguished people. The little duck!"
"The little goat," cried the Poor Boy. "The darling little goat!"
"Only call her that to her face—and she's yours."
"I daren't," said the Poor Boy, "now that I know that I love her—"