Who are you, please?"
"I am Ruperta."
"I never heard that name before."
"No more did I. I think they measured me for it: you live in the great
house there, don't you?"
"Yes, Ruperta."
"Well, then, I live in the little house. It is not very little either.
It's Highmore. I saw you in church one day; is that lady with the hair
your mamma?"
"Yes, Ruperta."
"She is beautiful."
"Isn't she?"
"But mine is so good."
"Mine is very good, too, Ruperta. Wonderfully good."
"I like you, Compton--a little."
"I like you a good deal, Ruperta."
"La, do you? I wonder at that: you are like a cherub, and I am such a
black thing."
"But that is why I like you. Reginald is darker than you, and oh, so
beautiful!"
"Hum!--he is a very bad boy."
"No, he is not."
"Don't tell stories, child; he is. I know all about him. A wicked,
vulgar, bad boy."
"He is not," cried Compton, almost sniveling; but he altered his mind,
and fired up. "You are a naughty, story-telling girl, to say that."
"Bless _me!"_ said Ruperta, coloring high, and tossing her head
haughtily.
"I don't like you _now,_ Ruperta," said Compton, with all the decent
calmness of a settled conviction.
"You don't!" screamed Ruperta. "Then go about your business directly,
and don't never come here again! Scolding _me!_ How dare you?--oh! oh!
oh!" and the little lady went off slowly, with her finger in her eye;
and Master Compton looked rather rueful, as we all do when this
charming sex has recourse to what may be called "liquid reasoning.
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