“No.”
“Am I conceited?”
“No. I like you,” replied Mrs. Thornton, with a slight bow and a wave of the hand, which she accompanied with a smile.
“And I like you,” said Despard, in the same tone.
“You could not do less.”
“This,” said Despard, with an air of thoughtful seriousness, “is a solemn occasion. After such a tender confession from each of us what remains to be done? What is it that the novels lay down?”
“I’m sure,” returned Mrs. Thornton, with the same assumed solemnity, “it is not for me to say. You must make the proposition.”
“We cannot do any thing less than fly together.”
“I should think not”
“But where?”