Ross Powell moved his chair to Laurel's side, and gazed deep into her beautiful, wondering dark eyes.
"The person is myself," he replied, in low, lover-like tones. "I have fallen in love with you, my beautiful little Laurel, and I want you to come and be my little fairy housekeeper. I will love and cherish you as the darling of my heart."
Laurel regarded him a moment in blank silence. There was a look of genuine perplexity on her innocent face.
She spoke at length in a low, doubtful tone.
"Are you asking me to be your wife, sir?" was her naïve question.
He flushed and looked rather abashed at the innocent question.
"Why, no, my dear, not exactly," he answered, regaining his self-possession in a moment. "I don't wish to saddle myself with a wife yet; but it would be about the same thing. I would worship you, my beautiful Laurel, and you should have fine dresses and jewels, visit the theaters and operas, live in beautiful rooms; while I, your adoring slave—"
"Stop, Ross Powell!"
She had stood like one turned to stone, gazing and listening for a moment; but now her young voice rang like a clarion through the room: "Stop, Ross Powell!"
He sprung from his seat, and moving to her side attempted to take her hand. She tore it from him and struck him an ignominious slap in the face with that small white member. Her eyes blazed, her cheeks burned.