True Love.—­“No such luck; I wish you would.”

Bailiff’s Daughter.—­“According to your theory, if you apply a match to Love it is likely to ‘go off.’”

True Love.—­“I wish you would try it on mine and await the result.  Come now, you’ll have to marry somebody, sometime.”

Bailiff’s Daughter.—­“I confess I don’t see the necessity.”

True Love (morosely).—­“You’re the sort of woman men won’t leave in undisturbed spinsterhood; they’ll keep on badgering you.”

Bailiff’s Daughter.—­“Oh, I don’t mind the badgering of a number of men; it’s rather nice.  It’s the one badger I find obnoxious.”

True Love (impatiently).—­“That’s just the perversity of things.  I could put a stop to the protestations of the many; I should like nothing better—­but the pertinacity of the one!  Ah, well!  I can’t drop that without putting an end to my existence.”

Bailiff’s Daughter (politely).—­“I shouldn’t think of suggesting anything so extreme.”

True Love (quoting).—­“’Mrs. Hauksbee proceeded to take the conceit out of Pluffles as you remove the ribs of an umbrella before re-covering.’  However, you couldn’t ask me anything seriously that I wouldn’t do, dear Mistress Perversity.”

Bailiff’s Daughter (yielding a point).—­“I’ll put that boldly to the proof.  Say you don’t love me!”

True Love (seizing his advantage).—­“I don’t!  It’s imbecile and besotted devotion!  Tell me, when may I come to take you away?”

Bailiff’s Daughter (sighing).—­“It’s like asking me to leave Heaven.”

True Love.—­“I know it; she told me where to find you,—­Thornycroft is the seventh poultry-farm I’ve visited,—­but you could never leave Heaven, you can’t be happy without poultry, why that is a wish easily gratified.  I’ll get you a farm to-morrow; no, it’s Saturday, and the real estate offices close at noon, but on Monday, without fail.  Your ducks and geese, always carrying it along with you.  All you would have to do is to admit me; Heaven is full of twos.  If you shall swim on a crystal lake—­Phoebe told me what a genius you have for getting them out of the muddy pond; she was sitting beside it when I called, her hand in that of a straw-coloured person named Gladwish, and the ground in her vicinity completely strewn with votive offerings.  You shall splash your silver sea with an ivory wand; your hens shall have suburban cottages, each with its garden; their perches shall be of satin-wood and their water dishes of mother-of-pearl.  You shall be the Goose Girl and I will be the Swan Herd—­simply to be near you—­for I hate live poultry.  Dost like the picture?  It’s a little like Claude Melnotte’s, I confess.  The fact is I am not quite sane; talking with you after a fortnight of the tabbies at the Hydro is like quaffing inebriating vodka after Miffin’s Food!  May I come to-morrow?”