Freddy did not recognise the comical quality. “I don’t see it,” he moaned.
“Why, it would be so romantic! He would of course order you to leave the house, and never, never darken his doors again. That’s what the father always does.”
“You think that’s fun?”
“Such fun! Then, of course, we should have to arrange for romantic meetings, and secret interviews, and you would write little letters and put them in a prayer-book in our pew; and watch to get a glimpse of me as I go in and out of places; and stand on the opposite side of the street each night, till you saw the light in my room put out. Oh! What fun it will be!”
“It might be raining,” complained Freddy.
“All the better. That would prove your devotion. Don’t you love me enough to do that?”
“Yes,” said Freddy, meekly, “but I hate getting wet. Sometimes one catches a nasty cold.”
“Any one who tells a girl he loves her with a fervour and passion never yet equalled by man should not think of such things,” asserted Frances, disapprovingly.
Freddy had an idea that a girl who reciprocated such a passion should not seem so happy over the prospect of her lover undergoing the exposure, but the youth did not know how to express it. So he proposed: “Let’s keep it a secret for the present.”
“Let’s,” assented Frances. “We won’t tell any one for a long time, but just have it all to ourselves. And when I am riding in the morning you must join me; the groom will think it’s all right. And whenever papa and mama are to be out in the evening, I’ll put a lamp in my window, and—”