“How nice,” said Pixie flatly. She sat silent for a moment and then ventured tentatively, “Not my personal charm?”
“And your personal charm. Both! You’ve more personal charm than any girl I know.”
This was something like! Pixie beamed content. At this moment she felt really “engaged,” and agreed rapturously with all the encomiums which she had heard given to this happy condition. Success emboldened her to further flights.
“The first time you met me you didn’t admire me then! My appearance, I mean! You remember you said—”
“I did. Yes! But you were so sweet in forgiving me that I admired you instantly for that!” cried Stanor, skilfully turning the subject to safer ground. “And when you’re my wife, Pixie, you will seem the most beautiful woman in the world in my eyes. It is very unworldly of you to consent without asking more about my affairs, for I am a poor match for you, little one. It takes years for a man to make a decent income in business, and I have so little experience. My uncle has always promised to buy me a partnership in some good firm, but of course there would have to be some preliminary training. And if he did not ... approve...”
“But he must approve; we must make him. We couldn’t marry without his consent. He’s been so good to you!”
“He has, uncommonly good; but when it comes to marrying, it’s a fellow’s own affair. I shall go my own way...”
“He’s lame!”
“Dear little girl, what has that to do with the case in point?”
“Well, I think it has!” persisted Pixie obstinately. “It has to me. We must be nice to him, Stanor, and make him be pleased, whether he wants to or not. ... Did you notice how naturally I called you ‘Stanor’?”