“Not in words,” conceded her tormentor, “but you do, all the same, don’t you, petite?”
“I am not your petite, either,” protested Mell, driven almost to desperation.
“No? Then you are sure to be my darling. That’s it, Mell! You are certainly a darling, and mine.”
“I am not!” shrieked Mell, choking with anger. This mockery of a sore subject was really unbearable.
“Not my darling, either?” inquired Jerome, grave as a Mussulman. “Then what the dickens are you?”
“A woman not to be trifled with,” said Mell, hotly; “who finds it much easier to magnify injuries than to forgive them.”
“Like the rest of us,” interposed Jerome; “but that is not Christian, you know.”
“You are enough to turn the saintliest Christian into a cast-away,” proceeded Mell, severely. “Can’t you be serious for a little while? I am not a child to be mocked at and cajoled and cozened and hood-winked, faire pattes de velours, treated to flim-flam and sweet-meats, knowing all the while that you are ashamed of my mere acquaintance.”
“You can’t think such a thing!”