"And so have you," I retorted, as severely as I could.
"I don't deny it," said he, laughing like mad.
"Neither do I, if it comes to that."
Now, be it understood, we had neither of us, as yet, confessed to the other the reality of the attachment we had each conceived for the divine Polly.
"You are really in love, then, Rory?"
"Oh! don't mention it," replied he. "Ocean deep, my boy; fathomless; out of soundings one instant; the next, floating nautilus-like upon the warm, tranquil bosom of an oriental lake; now, lifted upon the very top wave of lunacy, to clutch at stars; and sunk in the hollow depths of dark despair." Rory was curiously ornate in his amatory outbreaks. "What do you think?" he went on, with a dash of his hitherto confidence. "I have been at the Heliconian again."
"No!"
"Upon my life! deep draughts! inspiration. Her eyes—oh! such eyes. You've seen them; small heavens, with a sun in each; saw her to-day—all fixed, my boy; she loves me—said so, and yet my pulse didn't overflow and choke me; heart in my mouth, to be sure—but gulped it down again with a ponderous effort; going to meet her to-night, by appointment; what do you think of that, my boy? what do you think of that?"
Curious coincidence, thought I, but said nothing.
"Shall I read you what I have been doing?" said Rory, with a slightly apologetic gesture.