"My fellow swears he saw you only t'other night—dev'lish late—with an armful o' loveliness——"
"You should kick your fellow for impertinence, Marchdale, and 'tis your turn to lead!"
"I'll be curst if I know what, then!" he exclaimed, slapping down a card at random. "There's Bet, now—and but one more day to win her! Who might win such a goddess in a day, 'tis preposterous——"
"I've heard," smiled Mr. Dalroyd, "yes, I've heard of women being won in less. And as to goddesses, Endymion sighed not vainly nor over long."
"Why as to that I progress—O I progress!" nodded Mr. Marchdale with youthful assertiveness, "she's all witching laughter and affection——"
"Unhappy wight!" exclaimed Mr. Dalroyd.
"Eh?" exclaimed Mr. Marchdale, wine-glass at lip, "How so?"
"Kind Venus save me from affection feminine!" smiled Dalroyd, "Where affection is passion is not. So give me burning love or passionate hate and she is mine."
"Od Dalroyd," interposed Sir Benjamin indignantly, "I say od's my life, sir, here's wooing most unorthodox, most unseemly i' faith!"
"But natural, Ben," retorted Dalroyd, "women love or hate as the wind bloweth. Your loving woman is very well though apt to cloy, but your hater—O Ben! Besides, all women love a little force—to force 'em willing is child's play, to force 'em hating—ah Ben, that methinks is man's play."