“You don’t seem to mind Gustavius—and me,” complained the Artist.
Galatea sat on the grass and took off her hat.
“You may come down presently, Arthur. I have long wanted to say certain things to you, but you are so impulsive in your—in various ways, that it seemed necessary for me to wait for some such opportunity as this, when you are—otherwise occupied. Arthur, you have pressed me to name a day for a certain ceremony—”
She was interrupted by a bellow from Gustavius, consequent upon a sudden movement of the Artist, who immediately concluded not to forsake his perch.
“Must you interrupt me, Arthur?”
“I didn’t; it was the bull-calf; I don’t bellow.”
“Well, Arthur, I would oblige you and set a date for our wedding if I were quite sure that we understand each other.”
“Galatea, there’s nothing to understand except that I love you to the extinction of every other thought or feeling, and always shall.” He paused to regain his balance, for the tree was a small one, and swayed under the stress of his emotion.
“Then, dear, if I set an early date, will you promise faithfully to love me in all my moods, no matter what I say or do, and never be angry, or dispute with me about anything?”
“Bless you, my darling! I swear it!”