"You won't be here very long, little one," he says; "you will be at The Towers before he has been back very long."
"Shall I?" I ask, doubtfully. Somehow it seems natural to me that Paul should be my lover, but I never look ahead or fancy myself his wife.
(A pause, which we fill up.)
"I want to ask you a few questions," I say, presently. "Will you ever swear at me when we are married?"
"Good heavens, no! I never was a very good temper, but I hope I know how to behave like a man."
"And do not all men?" I ask, meditatively. "I always thought they did at home, you know; it's very nice to find they don't. You had better never put me out," I add, pinching his brown cheek; "for I have a command of language that would frighten you. Tell me, do you ever shy dish-covers at people?"
"Never."
"Would you ever call me a peacock, a dummy, a mummy, a gawk, a mawk, or a beast?"
"I won't promise. They are pretty names, Nell—some of his?"
"Of course! but when he wishes to be especially withering he calls me that 'beauty.'"
"Lucky little woman," says Paul, fondly, "for both her lover and her father to have such a high opinion of her good looks!"
"Yes, indeed!" I say, laughing; "only, you see, he means it rather differently to the way you do!"
Here our conversation becomes ridiculous for repetition.
"It is my turn now," says Paul, presently, "to ask you a few questions; for it may be as well that we should know each other's little weaknesses before marriage as after. Do you ever go into hysterics?"
"It is like poor Martha Snell's staying," I say, laughing; "'who would if her could, but her couldn't.' I would if I could, but I
