The first popular-priced Saturday night, with the Bohemian Girl in progress, these two young persons might have been discovered leaning up against a fragment of some palace or other, engaged in a more than usually earnest conversation.
“Don’t get so excited, old dear,” cautioned the girl, beaming upon him at the same time, however, and letting her eyes slowly open wider and wider.
“But why won’t you marry me?” he persisted. It was the old, old urge—and seemed, indeed, about the only aspect of his former self that hadn’t been outgrown.
“Hear him rave!” she giggled. “You don’t seem to realize, Jerry, what it means to get married!”
“Oh, I don’t know,” he replied in an indefinite but lofty tone.
“Come on,” she coaxed, “let’s both be sensible. Aren’t we all right as we are?”
“What’s the idea?” he pressed on doggedly. “You admit you love me. Isn’t that enough?”
She looked at him in her simple yet unfathomable way, her smooth brow, so seldom fretted, showing faint furrows of honest perplexity, as upon the night her challenged little soul strove to appreciate the wonder of the lighted sky. And she said: “This is a time when I wish I had some one to tell me what to do!” It was a little mysterious, indeed, though her eyes twinkled just perceptibly.
He gazed at her. “I’m telling you what to do, Lili!”
“You don’t understand,” she smiled. “I mean some one....” It trailed off. On the stage a barytone was beginning that famous soliloquy, the Heart Bowed Down. Lili looked all at once a bit weary. She sighed and slumped against the scenery, resting her cheek on a convenient brace.