“Hush, Sam! the skylight is open. Come forward to the bows. Yes, Sam, I am in love.”
“Well, Robin, I can’t pretend ignorance, for I know it—at least I have seen it.”
“Seen it!” echoed Robin, “how is that? I have never by word or look given the slightest indication to any one of the state of my feelings.”
“True, Robin, as regards words, but there are other modes of indication, as must be well-known to a celebrated electrician like yourself. The fact is, my dear boy, that you and Letta have been rubbing your intellects together for so many years, that you have electrified each other—the one positively, the other negatively; and even a Manx cat with an absent mind and no tail could hardly fail to observe the telegraphic communication which you have established by means of that admirable duplex instrument, a pair of eyes.”
“You distress me very much, Sam,” returned Robin, seriously. “I assure you I have never consciously done anything of the sort, and I have never opened my lips to Letta on the subject—I dare not.”
“I believe you as to your consciousness; but, to be serious, Robin, why should being in love make you miserable?”
“Because it makes me doubt whether Letta cares for me.”
“Nonsense, Robin. Take my advice, put an end to your doubts, and make sure of your ground by taking heart and proposing to Letta.”
“I dare not, Sam. It is all very well for a fine manly fellow like you to give such advice, but I am such a poor, miserable sort of—”
“Hallo, fasser!” cried a merry voice at that moment, “how red de sun am!”