But this I wouldn't seem to listen to. "Twelve o'clock," I repeated. "Well, what you could find to talk about all that time—and I sitting here at the window alone"—
"You might have gone to bed," said Frederick.
"Gone to bed! And you out! Why, what can you think me made of?" But he only looked at me from under his eyes and laughed. "I'm not a stock or a stone."
"Certainly not, my darling. I may perhaps be permitted to observe—in your own picturesque language—quite the reverse. Quite the reverse," and he again tapped the table.
"No, love"—said I; for I thought I'd at once nip that notion in the bud—"of course I don't wish, in fact, I should never think of such a thing, as to desire to control you in the choice of your friends. If I don't like Mr. Truepenny, why I can't help it; and there's an end. But what I wish to say, my love, is this—oh, it's no laughing matter, for I'm quite in earnest, I assure you—if Mr. Truepenny thinks he's to keep you out till twelve at night, and I'm to go to bed; if he thinks that"—
"But I don't believe"—said Fred coolly—"he thinks anything of the matter. Indeed, what is it to him whether you never go to bed at all?"
"Of course; nothing. Only I'm not going to sit up and say nothing. A woman's not to be kept out of her bed as if her soul wasn't her own."—
"Why, your soul doesn't wear a nightcap, does it?" asked Fred, meaning to be aggravating.
"I don't know that," said I; for, as I've said, I was determined to nip the notion in the bud. "Nevertheless"—for I wasn't to be put off—"what could you talk of till twelve o'clock?"
Fred said nothing, but looked up at the ceiling.