"You are horrid creatures--you know you are--and deserve no pity from us!" Miss Wilkeson played her frisky, juvenile part admirably.
"So charming, and yet so cruel!" said Tiffles, uttering the first preposterous compliment that he thought of.
"You flatterer!" said Miss Wilkeson, beating a breeze toward him with her fan.
Tiffles, observing that matters were coming to a crisis, paused. Miss Wilkeson interpreted his silence as another attack of timidity. Time was valuable to her, and this kind of conversation might be kept up all night, and amount to nothing. She resolved upon her final coup.
"Oh! oh! Mr. Tiffles, what--what is the matter?" She looked wildly about her.
"The matter! What matter?" exclaimed that gentleman, little suspecting what was to happen.
"The wine--the warm weather--something--oh! oh!"
"With these inexplicable remarks, Miss Wilkeson dropped her fan, uttered a slight but sharp scream, and fell back in her chair, like a withered flower on a broken stalk.
"By thunder, she has fainted!" said the excited Tiffles. He had never been in a similar dilemma, and did not know what to do. He had heard tickling of the feet highly recommended in such cases; but that was obviously impracticable. A dash of cold water in the face was also said to afford instant relief; but there was no water at hand. "I must call for help," said he.
This remark appeared to arouse Miss Wilkeson. "Support me," she murmured. "I shall be better soon."