"Well, then, you' re a pig," was mine. "You are simply a nomenclatural Berkshire. But the second is that you let me measure your finger--oh, any finger will do. Say, the third on the left hand." "You really talk to me as if--" But this non-existent state of affairs proved indescribable, and the unreal condition lapsed into a pout. "Oh, very possibly!" I conceded; "since the way in which a man talks to a woman--to _the_ woman--depends by ordinary upon the depth--" "The depth of his devotion?" she queried, helpfully. "Of course!" I faced the broadside, without flinching. "No," said I, critically; "the depth of her dimples." "Nonsense!" Nevertheless, the dimples were, and by a deal, the more conspicuous. We were getting on pretty well. I bent forward; there was a little catch in my voice. Aunt Marcia was listening. I wanted her to listen. "You must know that I love you," I said, simply, "I have always loved you, I think, since the moment my eyes first fell upon you in that--other pink thing. Of course, I realize the absurdity of my talking in this way to a woman whose name I don't know; but I realise more strongly that I love you. Why, there is not a pulse in my body which isn't throbbing and tingling and leaping riotously from pure joy of being with you again, Elena! And in time, you will love me a little, simply because I want you to,--isn't that always a woman's main reason for caring for a man?" She considered this, dubious and flushed. "I will not insist," said I, with a hurried and contented laugh, "that you were formerly an Argive queen. I mean I will not be obstinate about it, because that, I confess, was a paraphrase of my verses. But Helen has always been to me the symbol of perfect loveliness, and so it was not unnatural that I should confuse you with her." "Thank you, sir," said she, demurely. "I half believe it is true, even now; and if not--well, Helen was acceptable enough in her day, Elena, but I am willing to Italianise, for I have seen you and loved you, and Helen is forgot. It is not exactly the orthodox pace for falling in love," I added, with a boyish candour, "but it is very real to me." "You--you couldn't have fallen in love--really--" "It was not in the least difficult," I protested. "And you don't even know my _name_--" "I know, however, what it is going to be," said I; "and Mrs. 'Enry 'Awkins, as we'll put it, has found favour in the judgment of connoisseurs. So after dinner--in an hour--?" "Oh, very well! since you're an author and insist, I will be ready, in an hour, to decline you, with thanks." "Rejection not implying any lack of merit," I suggested. "This is damnable iteration; but I am accustomed to it."