“Very likely.”
“On your knees?”
“On my knees.”
“Horrid, Brassid!”
“It is your fate.”
“But why, Brassid? Why must it be? Isn’t this lovely enough?” Miss Princeps mourned.
“Because I love you,” said he, stoutly.
“But, Brassid dear, that’s no reason.”
“It is. Every man who loves a woman must propose to her—if for no other reason than to be rejected. Then and then only he will see his finish. And I won’t see mine even then. And, to show you that you like me very much, at least, let me remind you that you quite unconsciously called me ‘dear’ just now.”
“Brassid, my grandfather was a whaler.”