“Look,” says the somebody who holds my hand, and smiles, “there is the rock where we stopped in the autumn of 1862, and where you behaved with so little propriety, you remember, sir!”
“I remember the rock but not the absence of propriety. What were a man’s arms made for but to clasp the woman he loves!”
“Stop, sir! People would think we were two foolish young lovers.”
“Young lovers are not foolish, madam. They are extremely intelligent.”
Madam laughs.
“Yonder is the primrose from which I plucked the bud,” she says.
“That sent me through Stuart’s head-quarters in April, 1863?” I say.
“Yes; you have not forgotten it I hope.”
“Almost; Stay! I think it meant ‘Come,’—did it not?—And you sent it to me!”
Madam pouts beautifully.