Write! Would you deign to call That 'writing'—this illiterate blotted scrawl?[Reading.
[Reading.
'Dear Hilda, if you buy The Star
To-night, you mustn't for the world
Suppose he got my hair uncurled—
That blighter who kyboshed the car.
He had the worst of it by far
Because the hood on mine was furled.
Good Lord! what steep abuse he hurled!
Yours, Harry—with a nasty scar.
'P.S.—The cut's above the knee,
And won't be right just yet, I fear
Oh, and what price you marrying me?
Anything doing? Let me hear.
Ring up to-morrow, if you're home.
Where shall we do our bunk? To Rome?'
Now, wasn't that enough to make me mad?
It is a shame! It really is too bad!
'Dear Hilda'—plain 'dear'! And what girl could marry
A man who, when proposing, ends 'yours, Harry'?
Gioconda.
I love his downright manner. In my mind
I see him, a tall figure; and, behind,
His old two-seater. Yes, I see him plainly—
Close-cropped—
Hilda.
Half bald.
Gioconda.