"You might have to run more than one through, at that rate, Blue Eyes," and this time she forgot to correct herself, which, if I remember rightly, seemed to please me; "I think you might, indeed. But, no! I imagine you can do better than that."
"How? I'll do it."
"Will you, my lord?" ("Vengeance confound that title!" thought I.) "I wonder if you will?"
"What shall I do? Tell me and it shall be done, Damaris," forgetting myself also in my agitation.
"I suppose," she said, speaking slowly, and with a wondrous look in those witching eyes, "you would not condescend to play at being my lover, would you?—only for a little while—say for a week or so."
"Wouldn't I! Try me! But—but—am I to have all the privileges of a lover during that week or so? Eh, Damaris?"
"Don't call me Damaris; it is not respectful. Yes, you may have all the privileges of a lover—in public."
"Oh! in public. But—in private! Then——"
"Then I am the Princesa de Carbajal and you are Lord Trent."
"What are a lover's privileges in public—I mean with princesses and scions of ancient houses? He has to be a kind of slave, a worshipper, does he not?"