In desperate trepidation I broke the fair one’s billet, and an auburn ringlet, silky and glistening, fell from its envelope upon the table.
“Dearest Pat,
“That lock of hair you turned around your finger when you stole a parting kiss, this morning—‘Will you for my sake keep it?”
“Curse upon parting kisses,” I muttered.
“I have written to that beast Brophy, to whom my father gave some encouragement, to say that, like a dead heat, the match was off. Would you wish to see the letter, before I send it?”
“Come up for coffee. We’ll have a quiet chat—and, like a dear good boy, go to roost early.
“Thine,
“Flora.”
“Oh!—it’s all over.” I muttered. Was ever man run into matrimony so ridiculously? What’s to be done? Knock again,—“come in.”—And in slided Captain O’Boyle.
“What the devil’s wrong with you?” was his opening address, “have ye seen a ghost—or received a call from the sub-sheriff? or”—