"Then Georgia and I had a fine talk,"--after another warm, happy silence. "Georgia never was so nice. She was telling me all about a man. I shouldn't wonder; but I mustn't tell even you--not yet. Then I came home and here were the beautiful flowers from Dr. Parkman. Karl--you _did_ tell him! Honest now--you did--and it was awful. Why didn't you put it in the university paper so that all the students could send me things? That nice boy, Harry Wyman, wrote a poem about me--'To the Lovely Lady'--now you needn't laugh! And oh, I don't know, but it all seemed so beautiful and right when I came home this afternoon. I love our house more and more. I love those funny knobs on the doors, and this library seems just _us_! I was so happy I couldn't keep from singing, and you know I can't sing at all. Then _you_ came home! You had the box out in your hand--I saw it clear across the street. You were smiling just like a boy. I shall never forget how you looked as you gave me the ring. I think, after all, that look was my _real_ birthday gift.--Now, Karl, don't you _know_ you shouldn't have bought such a ring? But, oh!--I, _am_ so happy, sweetheart." He kissed her. His heart was very full. There was nothing he could say, so he kissed her again and laid his cheek upon her hair. He knew she was growing sleepy. Sleep was coming to her as it does to the child who has had its long, happy day. But like the child, she would not give up until the last. It was true, he was sure, that she was loath to let the day go. "The play to-night was very nice," she said, rousing a little, "but so short-sighted." "Short-sighted, liebchen? How?" "So many things in literature stop short when the people are married. I think that's such an immature point of view--just as if that were the end of the story. And when they write stories about married people they usually have them terribly unhappy about having to live together, and wishing they could live with some one else. It seems to me they leave out the best part." "The best part, I suppose, meaning us?" "Yes!" "But, dear, if you and I were written up, just as we are, we'd be called two idiots." "Would we?"--her head was caressing his coat. "Have you ever thought how a stenographic or phonographic report of some of our conversations would sound?" "Beautiful," she murmured. "Crazy!" he insisted. "Perhaps the world didn't mean people to be so happy as we are,"--her words stumbled drowsily. "The world isn't as good to many people as it is to us. Oh, sweetheart--why,"--he held her closely but very tenderly, for he knew she was going to sleep--"why are we so happy?" "Because I'm the--lovely--lady,"--it came from just outside the land of dreams.