Soap Info

Next Soap (50) | Previous Soap (48)

a cigarette stared at me and let the flame burn his fingers. I
stared at Carlotta, speechless. The colossal impudence of it!
I am sorry to contradict you, said I, at last, with some
acidity, but you are going to do no such thing.
I am not going to marry you?
Certainly not.
Oh! said Carlotta, in a tone of disappointment.
Pasquale rose, brought his heels together, put his hand on his
heart and made her a low bow.
Will you have me instead of this stray bit of Stonehenge?
Very well, said Carlotta.
I seized Pasquale by the arm. For goodness sake, don't jest
with her! She has about as much sense of humour as a prehistoric
cavedweller. She thinks you have made her a serious offer of
marriage.
He made her another bow.
You hear what Sir Granite says? He forbids our union. If I
married you without his consent, he would flay me alive, dip me
in boiling oil and read me aloud his History of Renaissance
Morals. So I'm afraid it is no good.
Then I mustn't marry him either? asked Carlotta, looking at me.
No! I cried, you are not going to marry anybody. You seem to
have hymenomania. People don't marry in this casual way in
England. They think over it for a couple of years and then they
come together in a sober, Godfearing, respectable manner.
They marry at leisure and repent in haste, interposed Pasquale.
Precisely, said I.
What we call a marriagebed repentance, said Pasquale.
I told you this poor child had no sense of humour, I objected.
You might as well kill yourself as marry without it.
You are not going to marry anybody, Carlotta, said I, until
you can see a joke.
What is a joke? inquired Carlotta.
Mr. Pasquale asked you to marry him. He didn't mean it. That
was a joke. It was enormously funny, and you should have
laughed.
Then I must laugh when any one asks me to marry him?
As loud as you can, said I.
You are so strange in England, sighed Carlotta.
I smiled, for I did not want to make her unhappy, and I spoke to
her intelligibly.
Well, well, when you have quite learned all the English ways,
I'll try and find you a nice husband. Now you had better go to
bed.
She retired, quite consoled. When the door closed behind her,
Pasquale shook his head at me.
Wasted! Criminally wasted!
What?
That, he answered, pointing to the door. That bundle of
bewildering fascination.
That, said I, is an horrible infliction which only my
cultivated sense of altruism enables me to tolerate.

Next Soap (50) | Previous Soap (48)

Soap Index