"Oh!" said Deleah, impatiently sighing.
She knew how young ladies comported themselves under such circumstances in the delightful books of her dear Anthony Trollope; but she was neither angry, nor frightened, nor particularly shy; nor did she feel the inclination to throw herself into any man's arms, and to rest her head on his shoulder. She was uncomfortable under these declarations of love, and felt that she was being made ludicrous; that was all.
"You know it, don't you, Deleah?"
"Yes. I know it; since you tell me so."
"And believe in it? Believe in my desperate love?"
"I am sure you don't tell stories, Mr. Gibbon."
"Well?"
"I think it is a pity."
"Why?"
"I think you might love some one else."