THE HAPPY HYPOCRITE
Little Miss Mere, who had never seen a lord, except in fancy or in dreams, curtseyed shyly and hung her head. With a loud crash, Lord George fell on his knees. The manager was greatly surprised, the girl greatly embarrassed. Yet neither of them laughed, for sincerity dignified his posture and sent eloquence from its lips.
“Miss Mere,” he cried, “give ear, I pray you, to my poor words, nor spurn me in misprision from the pedestal of your beauty, genius, and virtue. All too conscious, alas! of my presumption in the same, I yet abase myself before you as a suitor for your adorable hand. I grope under the shadow of your raven locks. I am dazzled in the light of those translucent orbs, your eyes. In the intolerable whirlwind of your fame I faint and am afraid.”
“Sir” the girl began, simply.
“Say ‘My Lord,’” said Garble, solemnly.
“My lord, I thank you for your words. They are beautiful. But indeed, indeed, I can never be your bride.”
Lord George hid his face in his hands.
“Child,” said Mr. Garble, “let not the sun rise e’er you have retracted those wicked words.”
“My wealth, my rank, my irremeable love for you, I throw them at your feet,” Lord George, cried piteously.
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