"I dare say, my love,—[looking in his face, and continuing to drawl and simper in the manner which we might imagine of Shakspeare's little shepherdess—
"'Sweet youth chide on—I had rather hear thee chide
Than others woo—'">[
"But tell me, love, when I play wrong," [playing again without taking her eyes from his, even to look at her card.]
"I had much better leave you to yourself," said L.
"'You will be compelled to take refuge in fits of sullenness,'" muttered I, quoting from my former prophecy.
"My dear,"—[pronounced just in the same way as he might have said, 'you fool,']—pray open your eyes."
"Perhaps in rudeness," I continued.
"There again!" cried poor L——, who seemed in danger of being ruined by the admiration of his wife. "It is not possible for a card to be played worse than that. Your head, my dear, must be as confused as your boudoir."
"A bit of bobbin here—a hat feather there," I continued, growing malicious.