“I am not going to marry you?”
“Certainly not.”
“Oh!” said Carlotta, in a tone of disappointment.
Pasquale rose, brought his heels together, put his hand on his heart and made her a low bow.
“Will you have me instead of this stray bit of Stonehenge?”
“Very well,” said Carlotta.
I seized Pasquale by the arm. “For goodness sake, don’t jest with her! She has about as much sense of humour as a prehistoric cave-dweller. She thinks you have made her a serious offer of marriage.” He made her another bow.
“You hear what Sir Granite says? He forbids our union. If I married you without his consent, he would flay me alive, dip me in boiling oil and read me aloud his History of Renaissance Morals. So I’m afraid it is no good.”
“Then I mustn’t marry him either?” asked Carlotta, looking at me.
“No!” I cried, “you are not going to marry anybody. You seem to have hymenomania. People don’t marry in this casual way in England. They think over it for a couple of years and then they come together in a sober, God-fearing, respectable manner.”