SCENE XV

"But you must understand," said the lady, "that you carry me off against my will."

"To be sure," said he. "Isn't poor Denis O'Hara to run away with you merely to save your reputation?"

"So if I scream, sir, and give you a scratch or two, you will bear me no malice?"

"Bear you malice, is it?" said he, stopping to kiss each finger-tip of the hand which he contrived somehow should never be long out of his clasp. "Me darling, sure, won't I love to feel your little pearls of nails on my cheek?"

"And spare no expense upon chaise or horses," said she.

"Eh?" cried Mr. O'Hara, while a certain vagueness crept into his gaze. "Me dear love, the best that money can produce—that money can produce," said Mr. O'Hara, and his eye rolled under the stress and strain of an inward calculation: ("There's my grandfather's watch; I'm afeared the works are not up to the gold case, but it might run to four guineas. And there's my jewelled snuff-box that the Chevalier gave my father—no dash it, that's gone! There's my silver-hilted sword—I could exchange it for a black one and perhaps five guineas. And there's my three sets of Mechlin...")

While he cogitated, the lady smiled upon him with gentle raillery; then she popped her hand in her pocket and drew forth a well-filled case.

"And did you think," said she, laying the case on the table, "that I would have the face to ask a rich lover to elope with me?"

"Faith," said he, pursuing now aloud his silent addition, "there's the gold punch-bowl, too! I vowed as long as I'd a drop to mix in it I'd never part with the thing; but, sure, I little guessed what was in store for me—that will make twenty guineas or more. Put up your money, Kitty; I'll not consent to be paid for carrying you off, except," said he, "by your sweet lips."

"Now listen, sir," she cried, lifting up her finger, "you're a poor man."

"I am that," said he.

"And I," said she, "am a rich woman."

"Oh!" cried he, "Kitty, my darling, and sure that's the last thing in the world I'd ever be thinking of now. When I laid my heart at your feet, my dear, 'twas for your own sweet sake, with never a thought of the lucre. What's money to me," said he, snapping his fingers, "not that, Kitty darling! I despise it. Why," he went on with his charming infectious smile, "I never had a gold piece in my pocket yet, but it burned a hole in it."

She listened to him with a curious expression, half contemptuous, half tender. Then she nodded.

"I well believe you," said she. "Come, come Denis, don't be a fool. Since the money is there, and we know for what purpose, what matters it between you and me who puts it down."

"Ah," he cried, with a sort of shame, abandoning his light tone for one of very real emotion, "you're an angel! I'm not worthy of you, but I'll try, Kitty, I'll try."

The lady looked slightly embarrassed.

"I protest, sir; I cannot have you going on your knees again," she cried sharply, "and it's getting late, and the business is settled, I think."

"Leave it to me," said he; "sure, I could do it blindfold."

"Have the post-chay at the corner of Bond Street and Quiet Street, 'tis the darkest in Bath, I think."

"Ay, and the relay at Devizes, for we'll have to push the first stage."

"And after?" said she, and looked at him doubtingly.

"And after that—London. And sure I know an old boy in Covent Garden that will marry us in a twinkle."

She nibbled her little finger. The rapture evoked on his countenance by this last prospect was not reflected upon hers.

"But you forget," said she, "that I am to be abducted against my will, and what will people say if I marry you at the end of the journey without more ado?"

"Oh, faith," said he, without a shade of uneasiness, "shouldn't I be a poor fellow if I did not contrive to persuade you on the way? And then, what would the world say if you did not marry me after travelling all night with such a wild Irish devil? Sure," said he, with a wink, "what else could a poor woman do to save her reputation?"

"True," said she, musingly, and tapped her teeth.

She tied on her mask once more and drew up her hood, passive, in her mood of deep reflection, to his exuberant demonstrations. At the door she paused and looked back at him, her eyes strangely alluring through the black velvet peep-hole, her red lips full of mysterious promise beneath the black lace fall.

"And I never asked," said she, in a melting tone, "after your wound? Does it hurt you? Will you be able, think you, to face the fatigues to-morrow night?"

"Ah, I have but one complaint, Kitty," he cried, "and that's my mortal passion for you. And when a man's weak with love," he said, "sure it's then he's the strength of twenty."

"Not a step further," said she, "than this door. Think of the chairmen and Bath gossip. Good-night."