He kicked off one of his shoes so viciously at this point, that it went straight into, and smashed, a looking-glass; but he didn’t seem to care a straw for that. He did not even condescend to notice it.
“And to think, too,” he continued, “that you might have had that adorable young lady, Miss Waboose, who—in spite of her heathenish name—is the most charming, artless, modest young creature I ever saw. Oh! Punch, Punch, what a consummate idiot you have been.”
It was impossible to help laughing at my poor father’s comical expression of chagrin, as he sat on the edge of his bed, slapped his hands down on both knees and looked up in my face.
“Excuse me, daddy, but what ground have you for supposing that Miss Waboose would accept me, even if I were free to ask her hand?”
“Ground? Why the ground that she is fond of you. Any man with half an eye could see that, by the way she looks at and speaks to you. Of course you have not observed that. I trust, my boy, you are too honourable to have encouraged it. Nevertheless, it is a fact—a miserable, tantalising, exasperating fact—a maddening fact, now that that hideous red-Indian—Hottentot stands in the way.”
“That red-Indian—Hottentot,” said I, unable any longer to cause my dear father so much pain, “does not stand in the way, for I am happy to tell you that Miss Waboose and Eve are one and the same person.”
“Come, come, Punch,” returned my parent, testily, “I’m in no humour for jesting. Go away, and let me get to bed and pillow my head on oblivion if possible.”
I do assure you, reader, that I had no slight difficulty in persuading my father that Eve Liston and Waboose were really the same person.
“But the girl’s fair,” objected my father, when the truth began to force an entrance.
“Yes—‘passing fair,’” said I.