"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 contemp............