A Counterfeit Presentment; and, The Parlour Car

by William Dean Howells

Miss G.—"I forbid you to address me in that way, Mr. Richards."

Mr. R.—"Why, you were just going to call me Allen!"

Miss G.—"That was an accident, you know very well—an impulse."

Mr. R.—"Well, so is this."

Miss G.—"Of which you ought to be ashamed to take advantage. I wonder at your presumption in speaking to me at all. It's quite idle, I can assure you. Everything is at an end between us. It seems that I bore with you too long; but I'm thankful that I had the spirit to act at last, and to act in time. And now that chance has thrown us together, I trust that you will not force your conversation upon me. No gentleman would, and I have always given you credit for thinking yourself a gentleman. I request that you will not speak to me."

Mr. R.—"You've spoken ten words to me for every one of mine to you. But I won't annoy you. I can't believe it, Lucy; I can not believe it. It seems like some rascally dream, and if I had had any sleep since it happened, I should think I had dreamed it."

Miss G.—"Oh! You were sleeping soundly enough when I got into the car!"

Mr. R.—"I own it; I was perfectly used up, and I had dropped off."

Miss G., scornfully.—"Then perhaps you have dreamed it."