"Could you lend me your handkerchief, sir?" Jane-Anne asked. "I seem to have lost mine."
Refreshed by the borrowed handkerchief, and much comforted in soul, she turned to another part of the letter, asking:
"Do those ladies she speaks of write beautiful poetry, like my mountains piece?"
"I am not well versed in the writings of the ladies Miss Stukely mentions," Mr. Wycherly said cautiously, "but I fancy I am safe in saying that their work does not display the highest poetical genius, although it is doubtless very pleasing to their admirers."
"Would you promise, if you was me?"
"Certainly not," he answered vigorously. "Nothing would induce me to promise anything so absurd."
"Absurd?" Jane-Anne's voice was astonished; it was not an adjective which she would have applied to anything so serious.
"Most ridiculous," Mr. Wycherly repeated.
"She will be sorry, and she was very kind to me."
"Never forget her kindness, repay it if ever you get the chance; but never promise anybody anything without fully understanding what you undertake."