"No, no, dear old boy. Now go on."
At this moment it seemed really ridiculous to Lawrence to ask what he had in mind to ask. But he kept to his resolve.
"I want you to promise not to—well, promise to snub that Meramble. Don't be any more than barely civil to him. You know what I mean. It's pollution for a woman to be kind to such a man."
Prudence raised her head and laughed.
"Is that all?" she said. "Ask me something harder than that. What do I care for Mr. Meramble? Pshaw! I can give you that promise easily enough."
"Oh, you will, then?" he asked, eagerly.
"Certainly."
And upon this Lawrence was afraid he had been a silly tyrant. But he now inquired why, then, Prudence smiled on that confounded scamp.
"Smiled on him?" she inquired, in bewilderment.
"Yes; in a—well, in a peculiar way, calculated to make him think you cared for him—or would like him to care for you—or—oh, no matter what. Stop smiling on him, anyway."