It is all such abominably bad form.

"You know how--how----" "Ill-bred it is," supplies she quietly, gaily.
"It is intolerable," vehemently, turning away and walking towards the door.
"Ah, come back! Don't go--don't go!" cries she eagerly.

She jumps out of her big chair and runs after him.

She slips her hand through his arm, and swinging her little _svelte_ body round, smiles up into his face mischievously.

"What's the matter with you ?" asks she.
"It is in such bad taste," says Rylton, mollified, however, in a measure in spite of himself.