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Pasquale rose, brought his heels together, put his hand on his
heart and made her a low bow.
"Will you have me instead of this stray bit of Stonehenge?"
"Very well," said Carlotta.
I seized Pasquale by the arm. "For goodness sake, don't jest
with her! She has about as much sense of humour as a prehistoric
cave-dweller. She thinks you have made her a serious offer of
marriage."
He made her another bow.
"You hear what Sir Granite says? He forbids our union. If I
married you without his consent, he would flay me alive, dip me
in boiling oil and read me aloud his History of Renaissance
Morals. So I'm afraid it is no good."
"Then I mustn't marry him either?" asked Carlotta, looking at me.
"No!" I cried, "you are not going to marry anybody. You seem to
have hymenomania. People don't marry in this casual way in
England. They think over it for a couple of years and then they
come together in a sober, God-fearing, respectable manner."
"They marry at leisure and repent in haste," interposed Pasquale.


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