“Doesn’t the genial warmth of the sun ever lead one from the path of truth?” queried Harry, satirical of manner.

“Yes,” I answered.  “But not in a horse-car with people treading on your feet.”

“What has that to do with it?” Harry asked.

“It was on a Broadway car that Maude confessed,” I answered.

Harry looked blue.  His eyes said:  “Gad!  How she must love you!” But his lips said:  “Ho!  Nonsense!”

“It is the truth,” said I, seeing that Harry was weakening.  “As we were waiting for the car to come along I said to her:  ’Maude, I am not the man I ought to be, but I have one redeeming quality:  I love you to distraction.’

“She was about to reply when the car came.  We were requested to step lively.  We did so, and the car started.  Then as we stood in the crowded aisle of the car we spoke in enigmas.

“‘Did you hear what I said, Maude?’ I asked.

“‘Yes,’ said she, gazing softly out of the window, and a slight touch of red coming into her cheeks.  ‘Yes, I heard.’

“‘And what is your reply?’ I whispered.

“‘So do I,’ she answered, with a sigh.”

Harry laughed, and so irritatingly that had his name been Thomas I should have struck him.

“What is the joke?” I asked.

“You won’t think it’s funny,” Harry answered.

“Then it must be a poor joke,” I retorted, a little nettled.  “Well, it’s on you,” he said.  “You have simply shown me that Maude never told you she loved you.  That’s the joke.”

I was speechless with wrath, but my eyes spoke.  “How have I shown that?” they asked in my behalf.

“You say that you told Maude that you loved her to distraction.  To which declaration she replied, ‘So do I.’  Where there is in that any avowal that she loves you I fail to see.  She simply stated that she too loved herself to distraction, and I breathe again.”

“Hair-splitting!” said I, wrathfully.

“No—­side-splitting!” returned Harry, with a roar of laughter.  “Now my declaration was very different from yours.  It was made when Maude and I were walking home from church.  It was about nine o’clock, and the streets were bathed in mellow moonlight.  I declared myself because I could not help myself.  I had no intention of doing so when I started out earlier in the evening, but the uplifting effect of the service of song at church, combined with the most romantic kind of a moon, forced me into it.  I told her I was a struggler; that I was not yet able to support a wife; and that while I did not wish to ask any pledge from her, I could not resist telling her that I loved her with all my heart and soul.”

I began to feel blue.  “And what did she say?” I asked, a little hoarsely.

“She said she returned my affection.”

I braced up.  “Ha, ha, ha!” I laughed.  “This time the joke is on you.”

“I fail to see it,” he said.