"Is it your own?"
"Sir!" She blushed at that, I can tell you.
"Because if it was, I would ask you to give it me. (I've fired the first
shot anyway.)"
Josephine whipped her hand off his palm, where it lay like cream spilt
on a trencher.
"Ah! I see; you are not free: you have a lover."
"No, no!" cried Josephine in distress; "I love nobody but my mother and
sister: I never shall."
"Your mother," cried Raynal; "that reminds me; he told me to ask her;
by Jove, I think he told me to ask her first;" and Raynal up with his
scabbard and was making off.
Josephine begged him to do nothing of the kind.
"I can save you the trouble," said she.
"Ah, but my instructions! my instructions!" cried the military pedant,
and ran off into the house, and left Josephine "planted there," as they
say in France.
Raynal demanded a private interview of the baroness so significantly
and unceremoniously that Rose had no alternative but to retire, but not
without a glance of defiance at the bear. She ran straight, without her
bonnet, into the Pleasaunce to slake her curiosity at Josephine.
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