“Do you? I’ll have you yet.”
“Don’t be so sure. I’d far rather marry Mr. de Saumarez.”
“Has that miserable little etiolated pensioner of mine dared to come after you?”
“Don’t speak of my friend so, if you please.”
“Would you like me to go and beg his pardon? I’d do it, if you told me.”
Only the thought of Lucian’s disgust kept Dolly back from taking him at his word. “I like Mr. de Saumarez, and I don’t think I like you at all. But you can give me the position I want, and he can’t. I want time to think it over. Come to me three months hence, and I’ll tell you my decision.”
“Do you like love at second-hand? De Saumarez has carried his sweetheart’s letter against his heart for nine years, and she wasn’t you.”
“I’d like his love at tenth-hand better than yours,” said Dolly, with spirit.
Farquhar laughed grimly. “And there you’re wrong, my dear. I love you pretty decently well, though I’ll admit there’s a bit of the devil in me. You want me to wait three months? All right; only I warn you that my position and, consequently, your ambition’ll suffer.”
“Why?”