“I am not bilious. As to exercise, I hate walking.”
“Then why don’t you talk cheerfully?”
“Because you hate me,” I replied, giving her a ghastly look.
“I thought I told you last night that I liked you?”
“Liked!” I cried with immense contempt. “I had rather be hated than liked. I want to be loved,” I muttered in a voice resembling that with which Hamlet père is used to address his son from under the stage.
“You promised you would not revert to—to—that subject, until I gave you leave,” she exclaimed, reproachfully.
“I can’t help it. I must speak.”
“Do try to be patient, dear Charlie,” she whispered in her most winning voice, with her sweetest smile.
“I will,” I gasped. “But oh, don’t treat me as if I were only a nice young man.”
She made me no answer, but letting slip her little hand, caught hold of my wrist, and gave it a squeeze. Eugenio, ’twas like taking chloroform. All heaven opened upon me.