“Y-yes.”
“I should say: ‘Go on, sir,—may you get more satisfaction out of that amusement than I have ever done.’”
She gave him a curious child-like glance of gratification between her half-shut eyelids. “Suppose you came home when it was a black, black night, and you found me half-way out the window with the beautiful young man holding my hand, and his tall black steed standing by ready to carry us away off from you to the end of the world?”
“I should say, ‘Good luck to you!’ I might even give you a hand up to the tall steed’s back.”
“Did you ever get with naughty men that made you drink, and drink, and drink, till you were quite drunk, ’Steban?” she asked, earnestly.
“Often,” he replied, ironically. “Who was the other man who tried to flirt with you?”
“It was a good while ago,” she said, with hanging head. “He didn’t flirt. It was only his arm.”
“Dislocated, I suppose. Well—upon what occasion?”
“Two years ago this month,” she said, gently. “I remember because the roses were in bloom, and they blushed quite, quite red as they looked in the window.”
“Modest roses! Well, to continue.”