“But my good fortune, Mr. Bantom—tell me that, and never find my face,” returned Lotte, laughing, “I have heard you say that ‘handsome is that handsome does.’ You remember that, don’t you?”
“And I sticks to it!” cried Mr. Bantom, slapping his thigh. “You’ve done the thing that’s handsome to me, and to everybody, I’m sure; and you’re, as handsome a young beauty as ever walked, to my thinking; ah! and to others, too, as you’ll see.”
Lotte raised her finger, and, turning her soft, sweet, laughing eyes upon him, she said—
“Oh! Mr. Bantom, if you continue in this praiseful strain, I shall think you have come here only to court me; and what will Mrs. Bantom say to that, when I tell her?”
Mr. Bantom indulged in a short hyena-like howl. For him to court her would have been in his eyes an attempt to be palliated only on the ground of the wildest lunacy.
“I thinks, then,” said he, smoothing the long nap of his new beaver-hat carefully with his coat-sleeve, “that I’d better ’old ’ard on that pint, and at once let you know why I’ve come. You remember that orful night when you went out in the evening, and didn’t come back agin, miss.”
The tears sprang into Lotte’s eyes.
“I do, indeed,” she replied, in a low tone.
“Well,” he continued, “early the next morning a flunkey comes to me, dressed in pupple livery, and brings a fippun note in a letter from you. The Lord bless your thoughtful natur!”
“Pray go on. What of that circumstance?” said Lotte, with an aspect of wonder.