“By the way,” said I, halting as I was moving off, as though arrested by an afterthought: “you might tell Conny when you see her that I am engaged to be married.”
“Really!”
“Yes, my cousin Theresa has done me the honour to accept me. The news will interest your wife.”
“And delight her too,” said Curling, “for she still worries now and then over the trick we were unavoidably——”
“Tell her to forget everything as I have,” I interrupted quickly, for I never could stand any reference to that trick from him. “She has nothing to forget so far as I am concerned, as I hope my engagement proves.”
And I left the bank.
I found Theresa alone—my aunt having been seized with an auspicious fit of tenderness which had driven her (in her carriage) to her daughter’s lodgings.
“It seems that I was destined to make love to you,” said I; “for I am perpetually finding you by yourself all alone, as the song says, and opportunity creates the thief.”
“I can hardly believe we are engaged,” she answered. “We have, I fear, both been too hasty—you in proposing, I in accepting you.”
“If you mean to imitate Conny, I had better withdraw to my bed-room and cut my gorge. What! accept me, and then break into lamentations?”