This
dangerous young gentleman was gazing softly on Zoe Vizard and purring in
her ear; and she was conscious of his gaze without looking at him, and
was sipping the honey, and showed it, by seeming more absorbed in her
work than girls ever really are.
Matters, however, had not gone openly very far. She was still on her
defense: so, after imbibing his flatteries demurely a long time, she
discovered, all in one moment, that they were objectionable. "Dear me,
Mr. Severne," said she, "you do nothing but pay compliments."
"How can I help it, sitting here?" inquired he.
"There--there," said she: then, quietly, "Does it never occur to you that
only foolish people are pleased with flatteries?"
"I have heard that; but I don't believe it. I know it makes me awfully
happy whenever you say a kind word of me."
"That is far from proving your wisdom," said Zoe; "and, instead of
dwelling on my perfections, which do not exist, I wish you would _tell_
me things."
"What things?"
"How can I tell till I hear them? Well, then, things about yourself."
"That is a poor subject."
"Let me be the judge."
"Oh, there are lots of fellows who are always talking about themselves:
let me be an exception.
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