Mrs. Bishop mused a little on this bit of news. ’Twas to be considered how it might affect her views. He continued:
“If ’twere not so I had offered myself long since to the lady. Indeed she has a melting eye.”
“For Mr. Walker. Not for another,” corrected Mrs. Bishop. “I speak by the book, for I heard her tell Mr. Rich you was the perfect lover.”
“Others have thought so also.” Again he stirred his glass reflective, and threw up his head, expanding his manly bosom.
“If I was a man——,” says the lady, and pauses.
“If you was, my dear, Sir Harry Wildair’s self would fall behind you.”
She laughed coquettishly—
“Well, I should at least know this, that a woman likes to be forced to compliance with her adorer when she’s too mock-modest to speak for herself. You knew that once too, Macheath?”
“There’s very little I don’t know about your sweet sex, Madam. Yes, I know that. And what then?”
She drew her chair nearer, and leaning on the arm of his whispered in his ear. He listened, his face changing from curiosity, to doubt, to pleasure, to surprise—as the whisper went on. Then she drew back and looked at him.