Pro.  And she called you a “creature.”

Myself.  The meaning of which I never quite fathomed.

Pro.  And, frequently, a “pedant.”

Myself.  I think not more than four times.

Pro.  On such occasions, you will remember, she had a petulant way of twitching her shoulder towards you and frowning, and, occasionally, stamping her foot; and, deep within you, you loved it all, you know you did.

Contra.  But that is all over, and you are going to “The Bull.”

Myself (hurriedly).  To be sure—­“The Bull.”

Pro.  And, lastly, you cannot have forgotten—­you never will forget—­the soft tumult of the tender bosom that pillowed your battered head—­the pity of her hands—­those great, scalding tears, the sudden, swift caress of her lips, and the thrill in her voice when she said—­

Myself (hastily).  Stop! that is all forgotten.

Pro.  You lie!  You have dreamed of it ever since, working at your anvil, or lying upon your bed, with your eyes upon the stars; you have loved her from the beginning of things!

Myself.  And I did not know it; I was very blind.  The wonder is that she did not discover my love for her long ago, for, not knowing it was there, how should I try to hide it?

Contra.  O Blind, and more than blind!  Why should you suppose she hasn’t?

Myself (stopping short).  What?  Can it be possible that she has?

Contra.  Didn’t she once say that she could read you like a book?

Myself.  She did.

Contra.  And have you not often surprised a smile upon her lips, and wondered?

Myself.  Many times.

Contra.  Have you not beheld a thin-veiled mockery in her look?  Why, poor fool, has she not mocked you from the first?  You dream of her lips.  Were not their smiles but coquetry and derision?

Myself.  But why should she deride me?

Contra.  For your youth and—­innocence.

Myself.  My youth! my innocence!

Contra.  Being a fool ingrain, didn’t you boast that you had known but few women?

Myself.  I did, but—­

Contra.  Didn’t she call you boy! boy! boy!—­and laugh at you?

Myself.  Well—­even so—­

Contra (with bitter scorn).  O Boy!  O Innocent of the innocent!  Go to, for a bookish fool!  Learn that lovely ladies yield themselves but to those who are masterful in their wooing, who have wooed often, and triumphed as often.  O Innocent of the innocent!  Forget the maudlin sentiment of thy books and old romances—­thy pure Sir Galahads, thy “vary parfait gentil knightes,” thy meek and lowly lovers serving their ladies on bended knee; open thine eyes, learn that women to-day love only the strong hand, the bold eye, the ready