“Of what were you thinking, Mr. Muldoon?”
“Mr. Muldoon!” he repeated to himself with an endeavor to reflect the intonation of personal distinction which issued so entrancingly from the Cupid’s bow of a mouth. He had not been so ceremoniously addressed since he knew not when, and never realized that his homely name had such music in it. “Oh!” he thought, “if she would only say ‘Dennis,’ it would be like grand opera.”
“Why,” replied Dennis with simple frankness. “I was thinking, for one thing—for one thing”—but encouraged by her smiling invitation he stammered—“how beautiful you are!” and added to himself, or it looked as though he might express his sentiments that way: “There, you’ve done it!”
“Ah!” exclaimed his companion, with a rosy enjoyment of this unstudied situation and frank appreciation, “and what was the other?”
“I don’t know how to tell you the other,” answered Dennis. Then with an unreflective inspiration: “Did you ever read about Launcelot and Guinevere?”
“Ye-yes,” was the apprehensive answer.
“Well,” continued Dennis with a naïve remembrance only of the chivalry of this idyllic indiscretion, “when I look at you I can understand how a knight could battle for a queen.”
There was silence for a moment, but in the interval the lady did not laugh, though her eyes were bright as she said:
“You are a strange boy.”
“Oh!” cried Dennis, “tell me, have I offended? I would not do that for the world.”