“Did she make lub to you, Geo’ge—plo—plotummikilly.”
“Certainly not. She came to ask about her poor father, and I saw that she is far too young to think of falling in love at all. What I said was that I have fallen hopelessly in love, and that as I cannot hope that she will ever be—be mine, I have made up my mind to love her hopelessly, but loyally, to the end of life, and serve or die for her if need be.”
“Oh! das all right, Geo’ge. If dat’s what you calls plo—plotummik lub—lub away, my boy, as hard’s you kin. Same time, I’s not kite so sure dat she’s too young to hub. An’ t’ings ain’t allers as hopeless as dey seems. But now, what’s dis you bin do here? My! How pritty. Oh! das real bootiful. But what’s you got in de ceiling—de sun, eh?”
He pointed to the dab of crimson-lake.
Foster explained that it was merely a “bit of colour.”
“Ob course! A cow wid half an eye could see dat!”
“Well—but I mean—it’s a sort of—a kind of—tone to paint up to.”
“H’m! das strange now. I don’t hear no sound nowhar!”
“Well, then, it’s a shadow, Peter.”
“Geo’ge,” said the negro, with a look of surprise, “I do t’ink your plo-plotummik lub hab disagreed wid you. Come ’long to de kitchen an’ hab your supper—it’s all ready.”