“My good Bobby, don’t be an ass.”
But Bobby persisted in being an ass, with the zeal of the dement. He became the fervent lover of the cinquecento Bandello—and, with his dark eyes and hair, looked the part. Imploring he knelt at the feet of the divinity.
“That’s all very well, my dear boy,” said Olivia, unmoved by his rhapsody, “all very nice and all very beautiful. But what do you want me to do?”
Of course he wanted her to marry him, there and then: to raise him from the Hell he was in to the Heaven where she had her pure habitation. With her he could do great things. He guaranteed splendid achievements.
“Before a woman marries a man,” said Olivia, “she rather wants an achievement or two on account.”
“Then you don’t love me, you don’t trust me?” exclaimed the infatuated young man, ruffling his sleek black hair.
“I can’t say that I do,” replied Olivia, growing weary. “If you tell me what sort of fascination you possess, I’ll give it due consideration.”
“Then I may as well go away and blow my brains out,” he cried tragically.
“You might better go and use such brains as you have in doing a man’s work,” retorted Olivia.
He reproached her mournfully.