“Yes;—have you not one from him?”
“I will not deny that I have; but I was only to deliver it on condition—”
“Don't talk of conditions give it to me, at once.”
“There it is, then: your commands are my law. I have been a martyr to my submission to the fair, but I don't repent; and, as philosophy and analogy both concur—”
“Not another word,” interrupted Isabel, “but leave the house:—go. What! Cupid's messenger, and demur?”
“Never:—I will fly. Wish for me, and Cæsar Devallé shall appear. I kiss your fair fingers.”
The Little Black Porter perpetrated a bow in his best style, and closed the front door behind him, as Doctor Plympton returned to the parlour.
“He's very obstinate—George is,” said the Doctor; “I can't account for it;—he won't come in. But where's the gentleman of colour?”
“Gone, father.”
“Gone!”