She came to me, and put her arms around my neck, and buried her face upon my shoulder.
“So this young rascal of a sculptor has asked you to be his wife?” I began.
“Yes,” she murmured, scarcely louder than a whisper.
“And so—the double-faced rogue!—it was not, as we had supposed, because of his great fondness for your aunt and uncle, that he became a frequenter of our camp, but because he had covetous designs upon our chief treasure!”
“Oh! but he is very fond of my aunt and uncle, too,” she protested.
“Is he, indeed! Well, what answer have you given him?”
“I said—I said I—I said I liked him.”
“Ah! I see. You said you liked him. That was rather irrelevant, wasn't it?—a little evasive? He asked you to become his wife, and you said you liked him. Did you give him no more categorical an answer than that?”
“I said he must ask you.”
“Ask me? Ask me what? It isn't I that he wants to marry. And I wouldn't have him, anyhow. Why should he ask me?”