"Mrs. Trapes!" Ravenslee was upon his feet, and before the sudden glare in his eyes Mrs. Trapes gaped and for once fell silent. "Mrs. Trapes," said he, still frowning a little, "really you—you almost—made me angry."
"My land!" said she, "I'm kind o' glad I didn't—quite!" and her sniff was eloquent.
"You see," he went on, glancing down at the letter again, "I've learned to love and reverence her so much that your suggestion—hurt rather!"
"Why, then, Mr. Geoffrey, I'm sorry. But if your love is so big an' true as all that—if you want her t' be a wife t' you—why in the 'tarnal didn't ye speak out an' tell her so?"
"I'll go and tell her so this minute."
"Y' can't! She's gone t' Bronx Park with that b'y, 'n' won't be back all day."
"Damn!" exclaimed Ravenslee.
"Sure!" nodded Mrs. Trapes. "Keep on, it'll do ye good. But anyway, what y' got t' say'll keep, I guess—it'll gush out all the stronger fer bein' bottled up a day or two."
"I can write!" he suggested.
"You can—but you won't—you'll tell her with your two lips—a woman likes it better spoke—if spoke proper—I should! With arms entwined an' eyes lookin' into eyes an'—oh, shucks! Will angel cake an' strawberry jam—"