“I have—much pity,” said I, “for if it’s rough, you’ll all be horribly seasick.”
Dora ran across the room from the book-case she was inspecting.
“I would like to shake him! He is only pretending he doesn’t understand. I don’t know what we shall do if you won’t come with us.”
“You can’t refuse, Marcus. It will be an ideal trip—and such a comfortable yacht—and the deep blue fiords—and we’ve got a French chef. You will be doing us such a favour.”
“Come, say ‘Yes,’” said Dora.
I wish she were not such a bouncing Juno of a girl. Large, athletic women with hearty voices are difficult for one to deal with. I am a match for my aunt, whom I can obfuscate with words. But Dora doesn’t understand my satire; she gives a great, healthy laugh, and says, “Oh, rot!” which scatters my intellectual armoury.
“It is exceedingly kind of you to think of me,” I said to my aunt, “and the proposal is tempting—the prospect is indeed fascinating—but—”
“But what?”
“I have so many engagements,” I answered feebly.
My Aunt Jessica rose, smiling indulgently upon me, as if I were a spoilt little boy, and took me on to the balcony, while Dora demurely retired to the bookshelves in the farther room. “Can’t you manage to throw them aside? Poor Dora will be inconsolable.”