“Couldst be so cruel, child?” he questioned lightly; and then, more seriously, “Could you stoop to such baseness? I wonder!”
“Nay,” she retorted bitterly, “’twere impossible! You have no heart ... never did have ... never will!”
“And yet it beats for thee, Rose. Reach me thy hand and feel.”
“Then ’tis the heart of a stock-fish!” she cried. “Cold, cold—infinitely cold and sluggish!”
“Stock-fish!” he repeated mournfully—“O ye gods—a stock-fish! Alas, sweet soul, what strange mistake is here? A stock-fish. I that am by nature so ardent yet so humble, of impulses so kindly, of passions so fiery, of sentiments so very infinite tender! I that am thy predestined mate, thy man——”
“Aye, thou,” she cried fiercely—“thou that art no more than a fine-gentlemanly thing as humble as Lucifer, as kindly as an east wind, as fiery as a lump of lead, as tender as that savage monster who nigh broke my wrists for me!”
“Gad’s my life, child,” said he, noting her flashing eyes and glowing cheek, “thy so splendid theme endows thee with new splendour, thou handsome wench! Though thou dost sadly embarrass thy modest John——”
“Would I might, indeed!”
“But ’tis very well thou shouldst justly appreciate me as well before as after marriage! And now, for thy poor, pretty wrists——”