It was then the turn of Cynthia to stand aghast.
"I hope your misfortunes have not deprived you of your reason," says she, more tartly than ever; and added, "I knew all along that you didn't know whether it was loaded or not."
"Come, come!" says I, keenly anxious, you may be sure, to change the topic. "We have already tarried here over-long. I will tell you the whole story in a more convenient place and season. If we don't go at once, I am afraid we shall not go at all."
"True," says Cynthia, seating herself again on the couch with the most deliberate and provoking coolness.
"What new whimsey is this?" says I, utterly nonplussed.
"I think, my Lord Tiverton," says Cynthia, with remarkable gravity, "that you have overlooked an important particular."
"Which? What?" says I.
"Nay, my lord," says she, "I am the last person in the world to remind you."
That might be true enough so far as it went, but the pretty roguish chit composed her features and her person into such an affectation of solemnity, and there was such a saucy twinkle in her eyes too, that all the words in the English tongue could not have spoken more plainly than she did without uttering any. It is, I suppose, one of the highest gifts of her sex, though to be sure, would it were exercised more!
"Dammy," says I, "you mean—er—er; you mean that I must ask you to marry me."