The Last Dance.

AN INCIDENT IN A WINDOW SEAT.

_He_: Well, how many conquests? I fancy a score
By the flush on your cheeks and your shoulders.

_She_: A bore!

_He_: Oh, nonsense; a debutante just out of school
Who can rule with a smile what a king could not rule,
From young Harry, her prince, to myself, her poor fool!
Come, tell me, did Harry propose?

_She_: What a goose
You would think me to tell you, and then of what use
Could it be?

_He_: Well, it might give me hope, where before
There was none,--quite a boon from the lips you adore
When you 're hungry for love.

_She (coquetting)_: Or who knows but it might--

_He_: Yes, it might blot from life every semblance of light
As the clouds blot the moon on a storm-troubled night.
But tell me.

_She_: He did.