"What a charming little scene," cried he, slackening the reins to allow the horse to walk up a long hill; "I wish you would write a pastoral poem descriptive of the little cottage and its inhabitants, Miss Watson."
"And make you the hero of it, of course," replied Emma, "I wish I could, the subject would be decidedly novel and amusing."
"Oh! by all means, make me the hero; introduce me in any way you like, you could not do wrong."
"I should particularly celebrate your great and glorious appetite, and the heroic way in which you attacked the bread and butter," said she.
"Miss Watson, you are growing satirical, I will not trust you; I know you will say something cruel of me, I see it in your eyes."
"Your dexterity in harnessing a horse, that shall likewise be commemorated—we will say nothing about your buckling the traces all wrong, or the assistance Mrs. Browning was compelled to give you."
"Are you a witch, Miss Watson?" cried he. "How came you to know of my little blunders; upon my word, I begin to suspect you of something strange."
"Likewise your extreme partiality for little babies, and your amiable caresses bestowed on them."
"Why, the baby was not exactly the thing I should have chosen to kiss," replied he, slyly, "but mothers and nurses seem to prefer it to having such fees paid to themselves; but, if you think I was wrong, we will go another day and I will make a more judicious selection."
"Far from it; I think you displayed peculiar judgment and taste—I am serious in commending it. On the whole, I think you have behaved nobly this morning, and posterity should learn your merits through my song, if it were only in my power to write verses."