The Artist sat down on the grass with his head in his hands.
“Does your head ache, Arthur?”
“My heart aches. Darling, have pity on me and name the day when we two—”
“Why, certainly—Wednesday.”
The Artist leaped to his feet.
“Day after to-morrow—how happy you make me!”
“Oh, I haven’t decided on any particular Wednesday.”
He threw himself back on the grass.
“But I’ve a feeling that it will be some Wednesday, Arthur, dear.”
Then she stooped over quickly and kissed him.