"You know well enough."
"Upon my honour, I do not."
"What?" cried the lady. "You profess ignorance, when he distinctly said—
"Pardon," said the man, "but who said?"
"Your unruly sprite," she answered, indignant. "He came last night outside my window, which was wide open for the moon, and shot an arrow into my breast—a little baby arrow, but it hurt. And when I cried out for the pain, he climbed up to me and kissed the place, saying that would make it well. And he swore that you made him promise to come. If that is true, I will never speak to you again."
"Then of course," said the man, "it is not true. And now what do you want me to do with this unruly sprite?"
"Get rid of him," said she firmly.
"I will," replied the man, and he bowed over her hand and went away.
He stayed for a long time—nearly a week—and when he came back he brought several sad verses with him to read. "They are very dull," said the lady; "what is the matter with you?" He confessed that he did not know, and began to talk learnedly about the Greek and Persian poets, until the lady was consumed with a fever of dulness.
"You are simply impossible!" she cried. "I wonder at myself for having chosen such a friend!"