"I know it—I feel it," he responded eagerly. "Love is not the slow, vegetable-like growth of years. It does not move in its course with the measured, leisurely step of a man working by the day. It springs up like a mushr—like an electric flash. It takes instant possession. It does not need to be jerked in, as it were. It needs not the agonized coaxing of—of a young man's first chin whiskers, my darling. It is here! You will forgive my presumption, will you not, and speak the words that tremble on your lips—the words that will fill my cup of joy to overflowing?"
The evening had passed like a beautiful dream. Mr. Darnelle, admonished by the clock that it was time to go, had risen reluctantly to his feet, and stood holding the hand of his beautiful betrothed.
"My love," he said, in eager passionate accents, "now that you have blessed my life with a measureless, ineffable joy, and made all my future radiant with golden hope, you will not think I am asking too much if I plead for just one favor?"
"What is it?" shyly responded the lovely maiden.
"Will you please tell me your first name?"