"If you please."
Jacques feels his heart oppressed with its weight of love. He sighs. This manœuvre is greeted with a little laugh.
"Oh, that was a dreadful heigho!" she says; "you must be in love."
"I am," he says, "desperately."
A slight color comes to her bright cheek, for it is impossible to misunderstand his eloquent glance.
"Are you?" she says; "but that is wrong. Fie on't! Was ever Corydon really in love with his Chloe—or are his affections always confined to the fluttering ribbons, and the crook, wreathed with flowers, which make her a pleasant object only, like a picture?"
Jacques sighs.
"I am not a Corydon," he says, "much less have I a Chloe—at least, who treats me as Chloes should treat their faithful shepherds. My Chloe runs away when I approach, and her crook turns into a shadow which I grasp in vain at. The shepherdess has escaped!"
"It is well she don't beat you," says the lovely girl, smiling.
"Beat me!"