“Don’t play with me, Galatea, I’m too happy—so happy that I’m serious. The time has come for us to understand each other.”
Galatea looked curiously at the much-kissed hand.
“Arthur, you’ll forgive me if I confess to doubts about ever being able to understand you.”
“Dear—don’t, don’t say that, after that moment in the wood-road.”
“The wood-road?” She put her finger pensively to her lip. “Oh, yes, now I remember. I brushed a mosquito off your cheek.”
The Artist would not be warned—it was not his fault, he was built that way. He took her hand again.
“Galatea! Galatea! For the first time you let me tell you how much I love you. You confessed that you had not treated me with consideration, and you asked me to come often and note the progress of your reformation.”
Here the Artist paused and kissed Galatea’s hand a great many more times. He did not see the mischief in her eyes as she drew her hand away and asked:—
“Arthur, tell me, why do you do that?”
“Why do I kiss your hand?”