"Speak, O brightest sylph, fairer than the angels, sweeter than—hem, hem!—than the honey in the honey-comb!"
"For mercy's sake, stand up, Mr. Diggs!" said Irene.
"Not until you say you will be mine!" and his arms expanded, like an opened double gate.
"Then Mr. Diggs, I fear you will never reach the field of glory, for the war will be over before you rise from your knees," said Irene.
"Oh! ah! Hem, hem! You cannot be so cruel,"—still kneeling, and leaning further forward, as though to compel her to his embrace.
"Mr. Diggs, you can never be to me more than a friend. Pray, do not pursue the subject further."
"Miss Irene, dear, dear Miss Irene, you utterly wreck my life! I care not a straw for it now!" whined little Mr. Diggs, turning, still on his knees, towards Irene who had crossed the room, the most pitiful of faces.
No answer.
"You are—hem, hem!—very cruel, Miss Irene," he rose and awkwardly took his seat.
"I regret to have given you pain," said Irene graciously, as, at Mr. Diggs' request, she rang for his carriage, "but I am sure you will soon forget it, and will see that you had mistaken your feelings."