"Ach, it is nozink; it is nozink. Ze Gairman heart, madame, ven it is touched, do not zink of egsbense; it vibrate only viz sentiment. Besides, I buy zem halfprice."
Mrs. Pottle had both hands on the table, and was gazing through her eye-glasses at Schwab in speechless amazement.
"Allow me, dear Madame Bottle, to egsblain. You, no doubt, haf forgotten ze moment—vy should you regollect?—ven you ar-rive on zis ship: ze moment ven—vat shall I say?—ven you stickfast in ze too-narrow gangvay. Oh! madame, zat vas ze obbortunity of my life; I vas ready. You, Madame Bottle, vas Andromeda; I, Hildebrand Schwab, vas Berseus. Madame, I bush you zrough.... And at zat moment—I—fall—in—lov!"
"Oh!" gasped Mrs. Pottle, half rising to escape. But she could not leave the corner she had so carefully chosen without passing Schwab; his bulky form concealed her from view; and feeling a prisoner she fell limply back into her chair.
"Lov!" continued Schwab, as one declaiming an oration; "lov! vat is it? Madame, I seek it in Brockhaus Encyglobaedia, vol. eleven:—'Lov is a highly gomblex emotion azzoziated viz ze value vun put upon a berson or a objeck.' Vat, I ask myself, is ze value I put upon zat beautiful objeck—I should say berson? Madame, I—I cannot gif estimate—I, Hildebrand Schwab, vat gif estimate by ze zousand. Ergo, I am in lov: quod erat demonstrandum."
Mrs. Pottle said something, and again essayed to flee, but Schwab spread himself and solemnly waved her down.
"Stay, madame. It is not merely zat I am in lov; I am also in business. I haf ze honour to offer you double bartnership. My hand, madame, my heart—my Gairman heart—I blace zem at your feet. And viz zem go ze rebresentation of ze solid house of Schlagintwert, ze gorresbondence of ze Düsseldörfer Tageblatt vat circulate in Werden, Kettwig, Mülheim, Odenkolin, and ozer blaces; besides fery bromising agencies in Ruskin edition de luxe, batent mangle, hair restorer, zentrifugal bomp, bianola—"
Schwab was so intent on his formula that he was not prepared for a sudden convulsive movement on the part of Mrs. Pottle, who seized her sunshade, and, sweeping the bulky wooer from her path, fled below. He stood for a moment in solemn stillness; then he took out his pipe, emptied it of ash, refilled and lit it, and, blowing great guns, gathered the volumes into his arms and walked away.
Meanwhile Mrs. Pottle had almost fallen into the arms of her brother, who was bringing from his cabin a paper to show Bob on deck.
"Now, Jane, Jane," expostulated Mr. Charteris mildly "you are too old to take flying leaps like that."