"Please, Mr. Painter-man, forgive a meek maiden, and put her out of her suffering."
He turned suddenly. "Miss Whitridge, do you think I haven't suffered, too?"
"I am sorry, oh, so sorry. Don't let's suffer any more, please."
"How can I help it when you are going to marry that—"
"Jar-fly? But suppose I have decided that I don't care for jar-flies in my collection, even when they have gold wings, ruby eyes and are powdered with diamond dust? Suppose the jar-fly has flown to another flower and that I saw him go with joyous satisfaction?"
"Is that absolute truth?"
"Absolute. Yesterday the jar-fly and the butterfly, like the owl and the pussy cat, 'went to sea in a beautiful pea-green boat,' and if they didn't reach 'the land where the bone-tree grows,' they did get caught in the storm on Jagged Island. The result I foresee, for if they are not actually engaged they must be close to it, judging from certain looks and remarks of last night, while I am ready waiting with my blessing, which I assure you will be of the heartiest kind." She turned a smiling face upon her companion. "Please remove the instruments of torture. I have made my confession."
"Thank you for it. Consider the instruments of torture, as you are pleased to call them, sunk in the depths of the sea."
"Thanks. I think I notice a volume of steam issuing from the spot where they sank. Now we are friends, aren't we? And you are going to tell me about the family fortunes. You are going to let me see all your sketches, every single one, and you are never going to pass me on the road without stopping to say some nice friendly thing. You promise all this?"
"All of it."