"I am glad to hear you say that," says I; "and more glad that you have left off hunting with Phil Sheridan; he might have led you into some Indian camp filled with Modocs, who would have shot you for sport."
"Sheridan," says he. "Oh, he doesn't stay in one place long enough to do much harm."
"Exactly," says I; "but he works quickly. Still, you are here, safe and sound; why should we waste time over him?"
"True enough," says he; "so take my arm, and let us promenade."
I took his arm, and clasping both hands over it after a fashion I have seen prevalent among young girls when they walk out with their lovers by moonlight, moved proudly through that throng—very proudly—for I knew that long cloak covered imperial greatness that would have astonished that assembly, had they known as much as I fondly suspected.
"Tell me," says I, in a soft whisper, "did you receive a valentine?"
"Did I receive a valentine?" says he. "Why do you ask?"
"Ah!" says I, "do not question me."
"But I must. Tell me something about it."
"It was original. It was poetry," says I.