Lucy pouted again and in scorn.
“As if I ever would,” said she.
“Well, I don't know. Random is a soldier and a baronet; handsome and agreeable, with a certain amount of talent. What objection can you find to such a match?”
“One insuperable objection; he isn't you, Archie—darling.”
“H'm, the adjective appears to be an afterthought,” grumbled the bachelor; then, when she merely laughed teasingly after the manner of women, he added moodily:
“No, by Jove, Random isn't me, by any manner of means. I am but a poor artist without fame or position, struggling on three hundred a year for a grudging recognition.”
“Quite enough for one, you greedy creature.”
“And for two?” he inquired softly.
“More than enough.”
“Oh, nonsense, nonsense, nonsense!”
“What! when I am engaged to you? Actions speak much louder than remarks, Mr. Archibald Hope. I love you more than I do money.”
“Angel! angel!”
“You said that I was a woman just now. What do, you mean?”
“This,” and he kissed her willing lips in the lane, which was empty save for blackbirds and beetles. “Is any explanation a clear one?”