"So much so," I replied gravely, "that I am going to propose to her this very day."
Daphne's tongue seemed frozen.
"Well," I said, "aren't you going to wish me success?"
"Tell me her name. Who is she?" she gasped.
"I have her portrait here—somewhere—in a locket—that I'm going to give her as a Christmas gift," I replied with apparent unconcern, fumbling in my pockets for it; and while I was doing so Daphne contrived to withdraw from my embrace.
I drew forth the locket and handed it to her. It contained, instead of a portrait, a tiny mirror, whose convexity of surface diminished the objects reflected by it.
"You have made a mistake," she replied coldly, returning the locket. "There is no portrait here; nothing but a little mirror."
"No; I do not mistake. If you look again you will see the face of her I love."
She gazed at me for a few seconds before my meaning became clear, and then gave a little cry: