"Sweetheart," I asked, "when did you first know that I loved you?"
"When I became angry at you," she replied.
"When you became angry at me?" I repeated, and then the thought of the anguish through which I had passed recalled itself.
"Darling!" I exclaimed, "why did you treat me so? What had I done?
Sweetheart, you do not know how I have suffered!"
"But you must have known all the time that I loved you," she said, a strange smile on her lips.
"How could I know?" I faltered.
"Could you not tell?" she asked, lifting her dancing eyes to mine. "Who was the inspired author of lines which run like this: 'I have received that glorious message! Grace Harding loves me! The message was transmitted from the depths of her beautiful eyes! It has been confirmed by the gentle pressure of her hand as it rested on my arm! It has been echoed in the accents of her sweet voice! I have read it in the blush which mantles her cheek as I draw near, and I know it from a thousand little tokens which my heart understands and which my feeble words cannot express. I am—'"
'"I am an ass,' is the amended and proper ending of that sentence," I humbly said. "I beg of you, tell me how you ever came to see those words from my miserable diary!"
"It makes me mad even now when I think of it!" she declared, vainly attempting to release her hand. "You great big stupid; do you not know what you did?"
"I only know that I wrote those vain-glorious lines and that you must have read them," I said.