“Your hand, sir? If you would win a woman, you should offer your heart—hearts, not hands, for me.”
“You know that is yours already; and has been for long years: all the world knows it.”
“You must have told the world, then; and I don’t like it a bit.”
“Really, you are too harsh with me: you have had many proofs of how long and devotedly I have admired you. I would have declared myself long since, and asked you to become my wife—”
“And why did you not?”
Ringgold hesitated.
“The truth is, I was not my own master—I was under the control of my father.”
“Indeed?”
“That exists no longer. I can now act as I please; and, dearest Miss Randolph, if you will but accept my hand—”
“Your hand again! Let me tell you, sir, that this hand of yours has not the reputation of being the most open one. Should I accept it, it might prove sparing of pin-money. Ha, ha, ha!”