The fact is, whilst he was making one of his tirades--and delighted, perhaps, and wondering at his own eloquence, the lad would go on for twenty minutes at a time--the lovely Emily, who could not comprehend a tenth part of his talk, had leisure to think about her own affairs, and would arrange in her own mind how they should dress the cold mutton, or how she would turn the black satin, or make herself out of her scarf a bonnet like Miss Thackthwaite's new one, and so forth.

Pen spouted Byron and Moore; passion and poetry: her business was to throw up her eyes, or fixing them for a moment on his face, to cry, "Oh, 'tis beautiful! Ah, how exquisite! Repeat those lines again." And off the boy went, and she returned to her own simple thoughts about the turned gown, or the hashed mutton.
In fact Pen's passion was not long a secret from the lovely Emily or her father.

Upon his second visit, his admiration was quite evident to both of them, and on his departure the old gentleman said to his daughter, as he winked at her over his glass of grog, "Faith, Milly darling, I think ye've hooked that chap." "Pooh, 'tis only a boy, papa dear," Milly remarked.

"Sure he's but a child." Pen would have been very much pleased if he had heard that phrase--he was galloping home wild with pleasure, and shouting out her name as he rode.
"Ye've hooked 'um any how," said the Captain, "and let me tell ye he's not a bad fish.

I asked Tom at the George, and Flint, the grocer, where his mother dales--fine fortune--drives in her chariot--splendid park and grounds--Fairoaks Park--only son--property all his own at twenty-one--ye might go further and not fare so well, Miss Fotheringay." "Them boys are mostly talk," said Milly, seriously.