He. You make me the happiest of men.
She. You make your system of humbug far too complicated for me to follow.
He. Why, this is genuine.
She. Anything genuine from you, I fear, is impossible.
He. Oh, no; I have to be genuine occasionally, for the sake of contrast. The humbug was in asking you to marry me, and I wouldn’t have had you say yes for the world.
She. I never suspected you of insanity, Mr. Chester. Am I to infer that the climate of Cuba, or the wines—
He. Oh, neither, I assure you. Besides, Cuba has no wines, as you ought to know. Now, see; I’ll do you the rare honor of telling you the truth. Of course, you are at liberty to believe it or not, as you please; and very likely you won’t, because it happens to be as true as the Gospel, revised version. Some days since, I asked Annie Cleaves to marry me.
She. What particular thing had she been playing to rouse you to that point of enthusiasm?
He. If my memory serves me, it was the Chopin Nocturne in G minor. She did play extremely well, and as we happened to be in the conservatory afterward, I improved the opportunity to propose.