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"Precisely," said I.
"What we call a marriage-bed repentance," said Pasquale.
"I told you this poor child had no sense of humour," I objected.
"You might as well kill yourself as marry without it."
"You are not going to marry anybody, Carlotta," said I, "until
you can see a joke."
"What is a joke?" inquired Carlotta.
"Mr. Pasquale asked you to marry him. He didn't mean it. That
was a joke. It was enormously funny, and you should have
laughed."
"Then I must laugh when any one asks me to marry him?"
"As loud as you can," said I.
"You are so strange in England," sighed Carlotta.
I smiled, for I did not want to make her unhappy, and I spoke to
her intelligibly.
"Well, well, when you have quite learned all the English ways,
I'll try and find you a nice husband. Now you had better go to
bed."
She retired, quite consoled. When the door closed behind her,
Pasquale shook his head at me.
"Wasted! Criminally wasted!"
"What?"
"That," he answered, pointing to the door. "That bundle of
bewildering fascination.


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