“What—what is it?” asked Miss Carver, looking up absently from her work.
“Nothing; just a little outburst of passion from our young friend here,” said Berry, nodding his head toward Miss Swan.
“What does it mean, Mad?” asked Miss Carver in the same dreamy way, continuing her work.
“Yes, Madeline,” said Berry, “explain yourself.”
“Mr. Berry!” cried Miss Swan warningly.
“That's me; Alonzo W., Jr. Go on!”
“You forget yourself,” said the girl, with imperfect severity.
“Well, you forgot me first,” said Berry, with affected injury. “Ain't it hard enough to sit here night after night, strumming on the old banjo, while another fellow is going down to posterity as a Roman Youth with a red shawl round his neck, without having to hear people say they're in love with that head of his?”
Miss Carver now stopped her work, and looked from her friend, with her head bowed in laughter on the back of her hand, to that of Berry bent in burlesque reproach upon her, and then at Lemuel, who was trying to control himself.
“But I can tell you what, Miss Swan; you spoke too late, as the man said when he swallowed the chicken in the fresh egg. Mr. Barker has a previous engagement. That so, Barker?”