"Oh! Sir Christopher, what do you ask?" murmured Miss Mordaunt, as if there were any thing extraordinary or unexpected in the question. "What do I ask?" repeated the enamoured knight: "I ask you to bestow upon me this fair hand." "How can I refuse you, Sir Christopher?" sighed the lady. "You are so killing!" "Am I, dearest!" ejaculated the knight; and, encouraged more than ever by this assurance, he boldly kissed his companion. But almost immediately a cry of agony burst from his lips; and, starting up from the sofa, he exclaimed, "My leg! my leg! the—the devil's in it—and that's the fact!" The fact was however somewhat different; for Mr. Frank Curtis, having very quietly and deliberately taken his breast-pin from the frill of his shirt, was amusing himself with the very pleasant pastime of thrusting the point into his uncle's leg. On the third occasion of the application of the aforesaid breast-pin, Sir Christopher started up and danced about the room, while Miss Mordaunt, who was most anxious to bring the delicate topic of discourse to such a point that she might satisfy herself as to the very day on which she was to change her condition, endeavoured to her utmost to console him. Convinced that the pain he experienced could be nothing more than some sudden but very galling spasmodic attack, neither Sir Christopher nor Julia entertained the least thought of looking beneath the sofa: they therefore re-seated themselves upon it, and continued their tender discourse. "And when shall it be?" asked Sir Christopher, taking it for granted that it _was_ to be. "Whenever—that is—so soon—I mean—when you choose," murmured Miss Mordaunt. "But you will communicate your intentions to my brother, who obtained his captaincy a few days ago, and whom I _must_ consult." "And why consult him?" asked Sir Christopher, a misgiving entering his mind. "Oh! he might—I do not say that he will—but he _might_ object," answered Miss Mordaunt. "Then perhaps you wish me to state my views to my nephew also," said the knight somewhat testily: "as _he_ might also object." "But a nephew, Sir Christopher," urged the lady,—"a nephew is not a brother." "Very true," replied Blunt, as if some grand truth had just been made apparent to him. "And yet it appears, Julia," he added, in a coaxing tone, "that we have each a relation to whom we would rather not mention the matter—until after it was over." "Oh! you killing man—what would you have me understand by that remark?" cried Miss Mordaunt. "Simply that we should——" "Should what, dear Sir Christopher?" "Should be married privately—or run away to Gretna Green," answered the knight. "And now the truth is out."