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. I can look at you for ever, dear, in your
pink gown and your purple frame, unless I can do better. Won't you
come down?"
I. "I like it very much up here."
He. "You would like it very much down here, after a little. So you
didn't 'paint me out,' after all?"
I. "No; on the contrary, I painted you in, to every twig and
flower, every hill and meadow, every sunrise and every sunset."
He. "You MUST come down! The distance between Belvern and Aix when
I was not sure that you loved me was nothing compared to having you
in a second story when I know that you do. Come down, Pen! Pretty
Pen!"
I. "Suppose we compromise. My sitting-room is just below; will you
walk in and look at my sketches until I come? You needn't ring; the
bell is overgrown with honeysuckle and there is no one to answer it;
it might almost be an American hotel, but it is Arcadia!"
He. "It is Paradise; and alas! here comes the serpent!"
I. "It isn't a serpent; it is the kindest landlady in England. -
Mrs. Bobby, this gentleman is a dear friend of mine from America.
Mr. Beresford, this is Mrs. Bobby, the most comfortable hostess in
the world, and the owner of the cottage, the canaries, the tea-
tables, and the baby. - The reason Mr. Beresford was so thirsty, Mrs.
Bobby, was that he has walked here from Great Belvern, so we must
give him some supper before he returns."
Mrs. B. "Certainly, miss, he shall have the best in the 'ouse, you
can depend upon that."
He.
