He. "By the usual methods, dear."
I. "You shouldn't have come without asking. Where are all your
fine promises? What shall I do with you? Do you know there isn't
an hotel within four miles?"
He. "That is nothing; it was four hundred miles that I couldn't
endure. But give me a less grudging welcome than this, though I am
like a starving dog that will snatch any morsel thrown to him! It
is really autumn, Penelope, or it will be in a few days. Say you
are a little glad to see me."
(The sight of him so near, after my weeks of loneliness, gave me a
feeling so sudden, so sweet, and so vivid that it seemed to smite me
first on the eyes, and then in the heart; and at the first note of
his convincing voice Doubt picked up her trailing skirts and fled
for ever.)
I. "Yes, if you must know it, I am glad to see you; so glad,
indeed, that nothing in the world seems to matter so long as you are
here."
He (striding a little nearer, and looking about involuntarily for a
ladder). "Penelope, do you know the penalty of saying such sweet
things to me?"
I. "Perhaps it is because I know the penalty that I'm committing
the offence. Besides, I feel safe in saying anything in this
second-story window."
He. "Don't pride yourself on your safety unless you wish to see me
transformed into a nineteenth-century Romeo, to the detriment of
Mrs. Bobby's creepers.
