“Olive!”
He sprang to take her, but she eluded him. “Look! the moon is covered up again.”
“I only want to see your face.”
“Don’t talk like other men, though I have fallen like other girls.”
“No, you are always yourself, Olive—I have dreamed of this moment. I would not have it otherwise—except perhaps with you in the grandfather’s chair and a poke bonnet.”
“Now you are yourself. This is such a conventional ending to a holiday, we must preserve what originality we can.” She was recovering her spirits.
“A conventional ending! Why, it’s a most romantic incongruous match. It beats the comedy. I shall burn it.”
“No, let’s produce it—it wouldn’t cost much.”
“I am not worthy of you, Olive,” he said, with a quiver in his voice. “I have nothing.”
“Oh! When you have my heart!”