care; ‘Carpe diem,’ my rosebud, my fawn. There’s a nice Carmen about a fawn. ‘Time to leave its mother, and venture into a warm embrace.’ Poor old Horace—I’ve forgotten him.”
“Then poor old Horace.”
“Ha! Ha!—Well, I shan’t forget you. What’s that queer look in your eyes?”
“What is it?”
“Nay—you tell me. You are such a tease, there’s no getting to the bottom of you.”
“You can fathom the depth of a kiss——”
“I will—I will——”
After a while he asked:
“When shall we be properly engaged, Lettie?”
“Oh, wait till Christmas—till I am twenty-one.”
“Nearly three months! Why on earth——!”
“It will make no difference. I shall be able to choose thee of my own free choice then.”
“But three months!”
“I shall consider thee engaged—it doesn’t matter about other people.”
“I thought we should be married in three months.”
“Ah—married in haste——. But what will your mother say?”
“Say! Oh, she’ll say it’s the first wise thing I’ve done. You’ll make a fine wife, Lettie, able to entertain, and all that.”
“You will flutter brilliantly.”
“We will.”
“No—you’ll be the moth—I’ll paint your wings—gaudy feather-dust. Then when you lose your coloured dust, when you fly too near the light, or when you play dodge with a butterfly net—away goes my
