"I will," cried the girl, with her eyes flashing, and her little cupid-bow-like mouth compressed in a look of determination. "No, I won't. I'll go into hysterics, and scream the house down. I'll make such a scene!"

"You be quiet, you saucy hussy. There, it's the races, and I've got a lot of business to see to. But, look here, your place is along with your husband."

"Well, that's where I'm going to be," said the girl, with a merry look.

"I went over on my bike this morning and saw him."

"Oh, that's where you were off to?"

"Yes, and Syd's promised to be a good boy, and come over to see you to-day and have it out."

"Oh, is he? Well, that's right, but I don't want him to-day. I'm too busy. Look ye here, though, my gal, I mean to see that you have your rights. You just wait till I get my young gentleman under my thumb.

I'll give him the thumbscrew, and--"

"Here he is!" cried the girl, joyfully; and with a frisk like a lamb in a May-field she danced to the boy, who hurried in breathlessly. "Oh, Syd, Syd, Syd!"

The beauty of the dress was forgotten, as a pair of prettily plump arms were thrown round the young husband's neck, while, ignoring the big, ugly, scowling parent, the new arrival did his part in a very loving hug and an interchange of very warm, honey-moony kisses.

The recipients were brought to their senses by a growl. "Well, that's a pretty performance in public, young people."

"Public!" cried the girl. "Pooh! Only you, daddy, and you don't count."

"Public-house," said Syd. "How d'ye do, Mr Simpkins?"

"Never you mind how I do, nor how I don't, young gentleman. You and me's got to have a few words of a sort."

"All right, Mr Simpkins," cried Syd, cheerfully, as he drew back to the full extent of his and his young wife's joined hands to inspect her in front, and, with the girl's aid, behind. "Lovely!" he whispered, and the girl flushed with delight, as she kept on tripping, posturing, and dancing, as if trying to draw her husband on into a pas de deux, or a pas de fascination in a ballet, he being apparently quite willing to join in and finish off with another embrace.

"Drop it, Molly," cried the old man. "Now, sir, what have you got to say for yourself?"

"Nothing!" cried Syd, without turning his head; but he did the next moment. "I say, Sam, don't she look lovely?"

"Sam, eh? Well, you're a cool 'un, 'pon my soul!"

"Oh, daddy, don't!" cried the girl, pettishly.

"But I shall. Here, he marries you without coming to me first with 'by your leave' or 'with your leave.'"

"But hasn't he come now, daddy? You always used to say you wished you'd got a boy, and now you've got one--a beauty. Ain't you, Syd?"

"Stunner."

"Will you hold your tongue, Molly! You've got a worse clack than your mother had."

"Then do come and do the proper. You kneel down, Syd, and I'll lean on your shoulder. I ain't going to spoil my dress for n.o.body, not even a cross old dad. That's right. Down on your knees, Syd."

"Shan't. I want to put my arm round you."

"Very well; that'll do. Now then, come on, daddy, and say: 'Bless you, my children!' Curtain."

"What? What d'yer mean by 'curtain?' You hold your tongue, miss. Now, Mr Sydney Smithers. Smithers! There's a name for a respectable girl to want to take!"

"Well, hang it!" cried the boy, "it's better than Simpkins."

"Not it," growled the owner of the latter; but he scratched his head, as if in doubt. "Be quiet, Molly. Now, Mr Smithers, I mean my gal to have her rights."

"Yes, Mr Simpkins."

"Get it over, Syd."

"Yes, sir; I quite agree with you."

"That's right, then, so far; but what I say is that you ought to have come straight to me, as her father, and 'Mr Simpkins,' says you, 'I've took a great fancy to your filly'--daughter, I mean--'and I'm going to make proposals for her 'and,' you says."

"Yes, Mr Simpkins; I'm very much attached to your daughter and I've married her."

"No, you didn't, young gentleman," cried the old man, irascibly.

"That's just what you ought to have done."

"Yes, exactly, Mr Simpkins; but, I say, what are you doing to-day about the big race?"

"Never you mind about no big race, young fellow. I want to know what you're going to do about the human race. You've married my gal candlestine, as they call it, and I want to know about settlements. You don't expect I'm going to keep you and your wife and family?"

"Well, he won't let me," said Syd, in response to a whisper.

"Of course he won't," said the trainer. "Not likely. You're a gentleman, I suppose. You won't want to do nothing for your living."

"Oh, I don't know," said Syd.

"Well, that means you will. That sounds better. But you won't want to come and live here and help serve behind my bar?"

"No, I'm blest if I do!"

"Oh, dad, drop it," cried the girl.

"No, nor I shan't drop it, miss, till I've seen about your rights.

Suppose you mean him to come to London and begin figgering on the stage along with you?"

"I don't, dad."

"Well, I'm glad you've got so much sense in your head, my gal, for, you mark my words, he's the wrong sort. Too short and fat."

"Dad!"

"Well, so he is, my gal. I dunno what you sees in him."

"Oh!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the girl, and she turned her back, s.n.a.t.c.hed Syd's tie undone, and began to retie it, as she whispered; "Oh, do finish it all, Syd. I want to get good places on the stand."

"Perhaps," continued the trainer, "I might make you of some use among the 'osses after a bit. But you'd have to train, and get rid of a stone of that fat."