One evening in the far-off Middle West the lonely Amélie was sitting in her creaking hammock, wondering how she could endure her loneliness, plotting how she could regain her old lover. She was desperately considering a call upon his sister. She would implore forgiveness for her sin of vanity and beg Tudie's intercession with Arthur. She had nearly steeled herself to this glorious contrition when she heard a warning squeal from the front gate, a slow step on the front walk, and hesitant feet on the porch steps.
And there he stood, a shadow against the shadow. In a sorrowful voice he mumbled, "Is anybody home?"
"I am!" she cried. "I was hoping you would come."
"No!"
"Yes. I was just about ready to telephone you."
There was so much more than hospitality in her voice that he stumbled forward. Their shadows collided and merged in one embrace.
"Oh, Amélie!" he sighed in her neck.
And she answered behind his left ear: "Don't call me Amélie any more. I like Em betterr from you! It's so shorrt and sweet—as you say it. We'll forget the passt forreverr."
"Am! my dolling!"