"I know what you—what any man worthy of the name—must feel on seeing such a—such a—a spectacle, yes, as that man daring to make away with the flowers that have been floating on those waters perhaps for centuries."
The pond was exactly two years and three months old.
"What d'you mean?" gasped Mr. Lite, at length getting in an ejaculation edgewise. "Are you mad?"
"I wish you had shot him—yes, I do!" cried Mr. Rodney, frantically eulogising British assassination; and he threw himself into an adjacent wicker-chair in a most Corsican manner.
The Empress wailed again from her embrasure.
"Oh, Perry, save me—save me!" was her natural cry.
"I will, Henrietta—I will, my love," said the Emperor. "Keep up." After these reassuring words he advanced in a threatening manner upon Mr. Rodney, and remarked: "Give over! D'you hear me? Give over!"
"I beg your pardon," murmured Mr. Rodney, exhausted by his unwonted vocal exertions.
"Give over, or I'll lay my hands on you—I will."