"All right, don't you worry, old chappy," said Poppy soothingly. "You
come here and sit quiet."

He came and sat down beside her, as if the evening had only just
begun. He sat down carefully, tenderly, lest he should crush so much
as the hem of her fan-like, diaphanous skirts. And then he began to
talk to her.

He said there was no woman--no lady--in the world for whom he felt
such reverence and admiration; "Pop-oppy," he said, "you're fit to
dance before God on the floor of Heaven when they've swept it."

"Oh come," said Poppy, "can't you go one better?"

He could. He did. He intimated that though he worshipped every hair of
Poppy's little head and every inch of Poppy's little body, what held
him, at the moment, were the fascinations of her mind, and the
positively gorgeous beauty of her soul. Yes; there could be no doubt
that the object of his devotion was Poppy's imperishable soul.

"Well," said Poppy, "that tykes the very tip-top macaroon!"

Then she laughed; she laughed as if she would never have done. She
laughed, first with her eyes, then with her throat, then with her
whole body, shaking her head and rocking herself backwards and
forwards. She laughed till her hair came down, and he took it and
smoothed it into two sleek straight bands, and tied them in a loose
knot under her chin.