"I've read your letters.

They remind me of Carlyle's 'French Revolution.'" This staggered Richard; was his idol laughing at him?
A glance into her eyes showed only a darkened enthusiasm; whereat Richard puffed and swelled.

Perhaps his _Daily Tory_ letters did have the rhetorical tread of the Scotchman's masterpiece.

In any event it was pleasant to have Dorothy think so.

Before he could frame his modesty to fit reply, the cumbrous retreat of Senator Loot was overheard.
"Now we must go back," said Dorothy.
"May I have a rose ?" asked Richard, pointing to his blushing consignment of that day, where they luxuriated in a giant vase.
"Don't touch my hands!" cried Dorothy fiercely, whipping them behind her.
Richard gave his humble parole that he would not touch her hands.