“I pledge you my sacred word of honor,” Perkins managed to gasp in the midst of their careering, “I pledge you my sacred word of honor I felt as though I should faint—actually faint. I was paralyzed.”
“Why, see here!” and Philip came to a stand, struck by an idea he had long cherished but had lost sight of for the moment—“I thought you were in love with her yourself.”
“So I am. I adore her! positively adore her, you know, but what's a fellow to do when he feels himself thoroughly unworthy, like the dust beneath her feet?”
He folded his fat hands resignedly over the central region of his plump person—their favorite resting-place.
“You see, Philip, I could never satisfy her as Franz can and will; besides it's the most monstrous presumption to imagine even that she could care for a badly freckled specimen like myself. Dear old Franz! he will have his opportunity now, for you know she is very rich, has something tremendous a year, and she will gain a defender who will protect her from that blackguard of a brother of hers. Altogether, it is too lovely for words—quite ideal, you know.”
Philip looked at him admiringly. “I declare you are a good little beggar!”
Perkins winced at the adjective “little”. He did not like it applied to himself. He shook his head reflectively.
“My dear fellow, it could never have been me—and, too, there is Bessie. It has become solely a question of ripened fruit between us. Besides”—manfully—“I have from the first considered Margaret as so far above me that I have never wearied in my affection for Bessie—or her mother,” he made haste to add.
Philip laughed.
“Particularly her mother.”