She laughed again.
“Sir,” answered she, “but you have wit, if you can but be got angry.”
She leaned over the dial's face, and began to draw the Latin numerals with her finger. So arch, withal, that I forgot my ill-humour.
“If you would but agree to stay angry for a day,” she went on, in a low tone, “perhaps—”
“Perhaps?”
“Perhaps you would be better company,” said Dorothy. “You would surely be more entertaining.”
“Dorothy, I love you,” I said.
“To be sure. I know that,” she replied. “I think you have said that before.”
I admitted it sadly. “But I should be a better husband than Dr. Courtenay.”
“La!” cried she; “I am not thinking of husbands. I shall have a good time, sir, I promise you, before I marry. And then I should never marry you. You are much too rough, and too masterful. And you would require obedience. I shall never obey any man. You would be too strict a master, sir. I can see it with your dogs and your servants. And your friends, too. For you thrash any boy who does not agree with you. I want no rough squire for a husband. And then, you are a Whig. I could never marry a Whig. You behaved disgracefully at King William's School last year. Don't deny it!”