"Iolanthe," I said, "Iolanthe, dear, sweet child, do you know what you are doing?"
"I know," she replied, and smiled a woebegone smile. "I am lowering myself before God, before myself and before you. I'm making myself your slave, your creature, and I am deceiving you at the same time."
"You cannot even bear me, can you?" I asked.
At that she made the same old light-blue eyes of innocence, and said very softly and sentimentally:
"You're the best, the noblest man in the world. I could love you--I could idolise you, but----"
"But?"
"Oh, it's all so hideous--so impure. Just say you don't want me--just throw me over--I don't deserve anything better."
I felt as if the earth were going round in a circle. I had to summon my last remnant of reason not to clasp the lovely, passionate creature in my arms and hold her to my breast. And with that last remnant of reason I said:
"Far be it from me, dear child, to turn the excitement of this moment to my profit. You might regret it to-morrow when it would be too late. I will wait a week. Think it all over in that time. If by the end of the week you have not written to take back your word, I will consider the matter settled, and I will come over to ask your father and mother for your hand. But think everything over carefully, so that you don't plunge yourself into unhappiness."
She caught hold of my hand--this awful, pudgy, horny, brown hand, gentlemen--and before I could prevent her, she kissed it.