Inoffensive as the observation was, it had the effect of greatly irritating the lady.
“None of your sauce, young gentleman,” said she, putting down her bag and umbrella, and folding her arms defiantly. “I’ve not come here to take any of your impertinence.”
Reginald’s impertinence! He had never been rude to a lady in all his life except once, and the penance he had paid for that sin had been bitter enough, as the reader can testify.
“You needn’t pretend not to know what I’ve come here for,” continued the lady, taking a hasty glance round the room, as if mentally calculating from what door or window her victim would be most likely to attempt to escape.
“Perhaps she’s Love’s mother!” gasped Reginald, to himself.—“Oh, but what a Venus!”
This classical reflection he prudently kept to himself, and waited for his visitor to explain her errand further.
“You know who I am,” she said, walking up to him.
“No, indeed,” said Reginald, hardly liking to retreat, but not quite comfortable to be standing still. “Unless—unless your name is Love.”
“Love!” screamed the outraged “Venus.”
“I’ll Love you, young gentleman, before I’ve done with you. Love, indeed, you impudent sauce-box, you!”