Mr. March started forward.
“Well, little girl?” he said with roguish tenderness.
Ethel stopped suddenly and stared at him in amazement.
“Ah!” said Mr. March, shaking a fat finger at her, “The time has come to drop the mask of haughtiness. I know all now, you know, from your own sweet lips, I mean your own sweet pen.... I know how your little heart beats at the thought of your George. I know who is your ideal ... your beloved knight ... your all those sweet things you wrote to me. Now, don’t be frightened, little girl. I return your affection, but not Monday afternoon! I don’t think we can manage it quite as soon as that.”
“Mr. March,” said Ethel, “are you ill?”
“Ill, my little precious?” ogled Mr. March. “No, well, my little popsie! Your dear loving letters have made me well. I was so touched by them, little Ethelkins!... You thinking me so handsome and clever and, you know, I admire you, too.” He touched the red rose she was wearing playfully, “the gage of your love, eh?”
“NOW, DON’T BE FRIGHTENED, LITTLE GIRL,” SAID MR.
MARCH. “I KNOW HOW YOUR LITTLE HEART BEATS AT
THE THOUGHT OF YOUR GEORGE.”
“MR. MARCH!” EXCLAIMED ETHEL, “ARE YOU ILL?”
“Mr. March,” said Ethel angrily, “You must be mad. I’ve never written to you in my life.”
“Ah,” he replied, “Do not deny the fond impeachment.” He took a bundle of type-written letters out of his pocket and handed them to her, “You have seen these before.”