“But she was not losing you!” cried Stella with much innocence. “What harm could it do to her that you spent one evening with—anyone else?”
“Knows better than that, does Lottie,” the laconic lover said.
“Oh, stuff!” cried Stella. “It was only to make herself disagreeable. But she never was any friend of mine.”
“Not likely. Lottie knows a thing or two. Not so soft as all that. Put you in prison if she could—push you out of her way.”
“But I was never in her way,” cried Stella.
At which Sir Charles laughed loud and long. “Tell you what it is—as bad as Lottie. Can’t have you talk to fellows like Uppin’ton. Great prig, not your sort at all. Call myself your sort, Stella, eh? Since anyhow you’re mine.”
“I don’t know what you mean by your sort,” Stella said, but with downcast eyes.
“Yes, you do—chums—always get on. Awf’lly fond of you, don’t you know? Eh? Marriage awf’l bore, but can’t be helped. Look here! Off to India if you won’t have me,” the wooer said.
“Oh, Charlie!”
“Fact; can’t stand it here any more—except you’d have me, Stella.”