“Hateful, paltry, contemptible.” Nancy helped out his collection of adjectives, but, strange to relate, her smile deepened.
“And—happy!” finished Phil, triumphantly. “Nance”—-the tone was masterful—“you’ve got to marry me now, right off, to-night. I’m never going to let you get away from me again. I don’t care for all the James Thorntons and all the filthy money in the world. Will you, Little Girl?” The masterful tone gave place to one of pleading tenderness. “Will you give it all up for the man who has never stopped loving you and worshiping you for one single instant since the blessed day when you first came into his life?”
“Oh, Phil, Phil, you wicked, contemptible old darling, if you hadn’t asked me to pretty soon, I—I’d have asked you. I’ve tried to get along without you, and I just simply can’t!”
“Nance, you’re an angel!” cried Phil, rapturously. He leaned across the table, with a fine disregard of appearances, and kissed Nancy’s hands. But nobody noticed it at all—except the waiter at a respectful distance, secretly jubilant in the expectation of an unusually large tip, and he didn’t count. That is the beauty of those out-of-the-way Bohemian restaurants—people are so absorbed in their own love-making that they never have time to watch anyone else’s.
“You’re a perfect angel!” Phil declared again, fervently.
“I know I am; and I’m so happy”—Nancy’s swift transition from grave to gay was always one of her greatest charms—“that I’m afraid if I don’t get out of here pretty soon, they’ll have to call in the police, for there’s no telling what I may do! I feel like dancing a jig on top of this table!”
“I dare you,” laughed Phil, happily.
“Well, it’s only on your account that I don’t,” she said, airily. “Even though you are a liar, you look so respectable! And, oh, Phil,” she went on, irrelevantly, “I have so much to tell you. I’ll tell you all about everything—a certain fat blue pitcher I found the other day and that really brought me here to New York, about Mr. James Thornton and his artificial moonlight, and everything else—on our way to the minister’s. But I say, Phil”—here the Charles Warren, matter-of-fact strain asserted itself—“if we are going to be married to-night, we must hurry, for it’s after nine now, and I’ve got to be at Lilla’s by ten o’clock. I wouldn’t be late for anything. How surprised she’ll be when Mr. and Mrs. Philip Peirce sail in!” She looked up suddenly at the picture over the table. “Boy,” she said, very tenderly, “don’t you think ‘The Girl with the Laughing Eyes’ looks as though she approved?”
But Phil had no eyes save for the shining eyes across the table, so his answer cannot be described.