"Now, Alice——" he was very earnest, "don't preach."
Alice sighed.
"A-right. Finish yer pie, then!"
The Marquis complied. Hector guessed that he wiped his lips delicately, with a silk handkerchief.
"De-licious, Alice! Fair Hebe, fit for Gods! But tell me—how'd you like the serenade—the new song? Composed in the cells—durance vile, Alice. Romantic, eh?"
"I think it's—silly," declared the cook pettishly.
"Oh, Alice! And it was meant for you!"
"We-ll, the music ain't bad."
She was melting under his charm.
"So glad! It's founded on Don Juan, Alice."