“Why, what—well, that beats cockfighting!—why, what else did you suppose I meant, you darling of all born darlings”?
“I am sure I donʼt know, Clayton. Only I beg your pardon”.
He gave her no time to beg it twice, with those wistful eyes upon him, but made her earn it thoroughly, with her round arms on his neck, and other proceedings wherewithal we have no right to meddle.
“Yes, you may call me now your own”—ever so many interruptions—“your own; yours only, for ever”.
“And you would rather have me than my elder brother”?
“Sooner than a thousand elder brothers, all as grave as Methusalem”.
Clayton was so delighted hereat, that he really longed to squeeze her, although it is a thing which young ladies now–a–days never think of allowing. Let them hope that he did not do it. The probabilities are in their favour.
“Oh, Clayton, how can I be such a simpleton? What would my father say to me”?
“What do I care, my gem, my jewel, my warm delicious pearl? For three long months I have been dying to kiss you; and now I wonʼt be cheated so. Surely you are not afraid of me, my beautiful wild rose”?