‘You will like to marry me, yes?’ she pursued. “And yet,” he said, “you bid me talk cheerfully, or not at all. You won’t want to be late the first evening, and it’s ten minutes past seven now. Besides these there was a warm gooseberry-tart, and a cold pigeon pie—the latter capacious enough, even allowing for its due complement of steak, to contain the whole produce of a dovecot; a couple of lobsters and the best part of a salmon swimming in a sea of vinegar, and shaded by a forest of fennel. ‘Ah, bah, it is enough,’ she cried, and turning, ran out of the room. Cheveney was looking after her, I think, then.
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