Allen said abruptly, “Dorris, for what are you waiting?”
“Waiting?” repeated Dorris, wonderingly.
“Yes; don’t you remember
“While year by year the suitors come
To find her locked in silence dumb?”
“If it was any one but my old friend Max I should make you a very low courtesy, and say, ‘By your leave, fair sir, it is a matter of not the slightest consequence to you;’ but I’ll tell you the truth and nothing but the truth: I’m waiting for my hero, Max.”
“For your hero? Yes; I thought you were. And what is he like? A fairy prince like the Sleeping Beauty’s?”
“Don’t be satirical: it doesn’t suit you, Max,” retorts Dorris.
“Satirical? I’m in the deepest earnest. Won’t you describe him? I really wish to know.”
“Well,” began Dorris, “it is not exactly an easy thing to describe an imaginary person. He is no fairy prince, Max, but a strong and earnest man, a true and noble soul; a man who, for a good cause, would peril anything, a knight like Bayard of old: sans peur et sans reproche.”
“Do you think you will ever find this ideal?” questions Max.