“You funny little soul. Of course I want it. Why else should I talk about loving?”
“I thought,” she said sighing, “it was just nice feeling! It’s natural for people to love each other. When they live together in the same house and come through trouble. ... And we’re both attractive. ... You don’t need to marry every one you love!”
“I do,” declared Stanor, “when it’s a girl—when it’s you! I want to have you for my own, and keep you to myself, and how can I do that if you’re not my wife? If you love me, you must want to be with me too. Don’t you, dear, don’t you wish it? Shouldn’t you like to be my wife?”
Pixie tilted her head in her well-known attitude of consideration.
“I—I think I should!” she pronounced judicially. “I liked you from the moment we met, and you’ve a good disposition. Dispositions are important in marriage. And I’m domestic; you like domestic girls, and it’s convenient when you’re poor. ... On how much a head would you expect me to keep house?”
But that was too much for Stanor’s endurance; he seized her in his strong arms and shook her with a tender violence.
“Pixie, you little witch, don’t be so blightingly matter-of-fact! I’m making you a declaration of love. Kindly receive it in a suitable fashion. ... A—a fellow expects a girl to be a little—er—sentimental and poetic, and—er—overcome, don’t you know, not to begin at once to talk of how much a head!”
“I’ve never been proposed to before. You must excuse me if I make mistakes. I’m quite willing to be sentimental; I dote upon sentiment,” declared Pixie in anxious propitiation. ... “Let’s go back to where you were talking about me! Tell me exactly what it is that you most admire?”
Stanor had been hoping for a little adulation for himself, but he gallantly stifled his feelings and proceeded to offer the incense which he believed would be most acceptable.
“Your character, darling. Your sweet and tender heart!”