Culch. (diplomatically). Does that strike you as so very incredible?
Miss T. Well, it strikes me as just a little too thin. I judged you'd go away, and forget I ever existed.
Culch. (with tender reproach). How little you know me! I may not be an—er—demonstrative man, my—er—feelings are not easily roused, but, once roused, well—(wounded)—I think I may claim to possess an ordinary degree of constancy!
Miss T. Well, I'm sure I ought to feel it a vurry high compliment to have you going round grieving all this time on my account.
Culch. Grieving! Ah, if I could only tell you what I went through! (Decides, on reflection, that the less he says about this the better.) But all that is past. And now may I not expect a more definite answer to the question I asked at Bingen? Your reply then was—well, a little ambiguous.
Miss T. I guess it's got to be just about as ambiguous now—there don't seem anything I can say. There's times when I feel as if it might be sort of elevating and improving to have you shining around; and there's other times when I suspect that, if it went on for any considerable period, likely I'd weaken. I'm not just sure. And I cann't ever make myself believe but what you're disapproving of me, inside of you, most all the time!
Culch. Pray dismiss such—er—morbid misgivings, dear Miss Trotter. Show that you do so by accepting me as your guide and companion through life!
"HOW LITTLE YOU KNOW ME."
Miss T. My! but that sounds like a proposal?