“Famous things gondolas are, to be sure,” observed Charley, as, placing a cushion beneath his head, he stretched himself at full length under the awning; “they afford almost the only instance that has come under my notice in which the intensely romantic and the very decidedly comfortable go hand in hand—they cut out cabs, and beat ’busses into fits. Now, we only want a little melody to make the thing perfect—Laura, sing us a song!”
“Sing you asleep, you mean, you incorrigible——”
“There, that will do; don’t become vituperative, you termagant,” interrupted her husband. “Annie, dear, gentle cousin Annie, warble forth something romantic with your angel-voice, do, and I’ll say you’re——”
“What?” inquired Annie.
“A regular stunner!” was the reply.
“And if the epithet be at all appropriate, it clearly proves me unqualified for the office,” returned Annie, smiling, “so you really must hold me excused.”
“Then the long and short of the matter is that the duty devolves upon me,” rejoined Charley, and slowly raising himself into a half sitting, half kneeling attitude, he placed himself at his wife’s feet, after the fashion of those very interesting cavaliers who do the romantic on the covers of sentimental songs; then having played an inaudible prelude upon a supposititious guitar, he placed one hand upon his heart, and extending the other in a theatrical attitude towards the boatman, begun—
“Gondolier, row—O!”
when, having extemporarily parodied the first verse of that popular melody, he was beginning the second with—
“Ain’t this here go—