“You please me so much, Carlotta,” said I, “that I have bought this for you.”

Before I had completed the sentence, and before I knew what she was after, her arms were round my neck and she was hugging me like a child.

I have never experienced such an odd sensation in my life as the touch of Carlotta’s fresh young arms upon my face and the perfume of spring violets that emanated from her person.  I released myself swiftly from her indecorous demonstration.

“You mustn’t do things like that,” said I, severely.  “In England, young women are only allowed to embrace their grandfathers.”  Carlotta looked at me wide-eyed, with the fox-terrier knitting of the forehead.

“But you are so good to me, Seer Marcous,” she said.

“I hope you’ll find many people good to you, Carlotta,” I answered.  “But if you continue that method of expressing your appreciation, you may possibly be misunderstood.”

I had recovered from the momentary shock to my senses, and I laughed.  She fluttered a sidelong glance at me, and a smile as inscrutable as the Monna Lisa’s hovered over her lips.

“What would they do if they did not understand?”

“They would take you,” I replied, fixing her sternly with my gaze, “they would take you for an unconscionable baggage.”

“Hou!” laughed Carlotta, suddenly.  And she ran from the room.

In a moment she was back again.  She came up to me demurely and plucked my sleeve.

“Come and show me what I must put on so as to please you.”

I rang the bell for Antoinette, to whom I gave the necessary instructions.  Her next request would be that I should act the part of lady’s-maid.  I must maintain my dignity with Carlotta.

The lovely afternoon had attracted many people to the park, and the lawns were thronged.  We found a couple of chairs at the edge of one of the cross-paths and watched the elegant assembly.  Carlotta, vastly entertained, asked innumerable questions.  How could I tell whether a lady was married or unmarried?  Did they all wear stays?  Why did every one look so happy?  Did I think that old man was the young girl’s husband?  What were they all talking about?  Wouldn’t I take her for a drive in one of those beautiful carriages?  Why hadn’t I a carriage?  Then suddenly, as if inspired, after a few minutes’ silent reflection: 

“Seer Marcous, is this the marriage market?”

“The what?” I gasped.

“The marriage market.  I read it in a book, yesterday.  Miss Griggs gave it me to read aloud—­Tack—­Thack—­”

“Thackeray?”

“Ye-es.  They come here to sell the young girls to men who want wives.”  She edged away from me, with a little movement of alarm.  “That is not why you have brought me here—­to sell me?”

“How much do you think you would be worth?” I asked, sarcastically.

She opened out her hands palms upward, throwing down her parasol, as she did so, upon her neighbour’s little Belgian griffon, who yelped.