[Illustration: "Ah, how little you know me!"]

_Culch._ (_with tender reproach_). How little you know me! I may not be
an--er--demonstrative man, my--er--feelings are not easily roused, but,
once roused, well--(_wounded_)--I think I may claim to possess an ordinary
degree of constancy!

_Miss T._ Well, I'm sure I _ought_ to feel it a vurry high compliment to
have you going round grieving all this time on _my_ account.

_Culch._ Grieving! Ah, if I could only _tell_ you what I went through!
(_Decides, on reflection, that the less he says about this the better._)
But all that is past. And now may I not expect a more definite answer to
the question I asked at Bingen? Your reply then was--well, a little
ambiguous.

_Miss T._ I guess it's got to be just about as ambiguous now--there don't
seem anything I _can_ say. There's times when I feel as if it might be sort
of elevating and improving to have you shining around; and there's other
times when I suspect that, if it went on for any considerable period,
likely I'd weaken. I'm not just sure. And I can't ever make myself believe
but what you're disapproving of me, inside of you, most all the time!

_Culch._ Pray dismiss such--er--morbid misgivings, dear Miss TROTTER. Show
that you do so by accepting me as your guide and companion through life!

_Miss T._ My! but that sounds like a proposal?

_Culch._ I intended it to bear that--er--construction. It _is_ a