'Yours!' said Desvœux, in a tone of fervour which spoke volumes.
'These poor girls!' cried Maud, 'how shamefully they are dressed! Perfect Quakeresses!'
'Quakeresses!' answered Desvœux; 'but Quakeresses are too charming, dear little tender doves, in the softest silk and freshest muslin. I suffered agonies once upon a time on account of one.'
'Profane!' cried Mrs. Vereker; 'Quakers are really a sort of monks and nuns, only that they happen to have husbands and wives.'
'Yes,' said Desvœux, 'monasticism without its single recommendation!'
'Rude man!' Mrs. Vereker cried; 'let us send him away, Maud. I should like to know, sir, what would become of you without us married women?'
'What indeed?' cried Desvœux; 'but, you know, when the Pope offered Petrarch a dispensation to marry, he declined on the ground that he could not write poetry to his wife.'
'That reminds me,' said Mrs. Vereker, 'that I must write some prose to my husband, and Mrs. Sutton some to hers; and the post goes in half-an-hour. Mr. Desvœux, you must really go.'
'I obey,' said Desvœux, with a sigh; 'my exile from paradise is cheered by the thought that I am coming back at four to take Mrs. Sutton for a ride.'