Car. I never saw his face; but—I have seen his soul!
Mat. What’s his soul like?
Car. Like? Like the frenzied passion of the antelope! Like the wild fire of the tiger-lily! Like the pale earnestness of some lovesick thunder-cloud that longs to grasp the fleeting lightning in his outstretched arms!
Mat. Was he often like that?
Car. Always!
Mat. A pleasant man in furnished lodgings! And where did ye see his soul?
Car. (sits). He poured it into the columns of the Weybridge Watchman, the local paper of the town that gave him birth. Dainty little poems, the dew of his sweet soul, the tender frothings of his soldier brain. In them I read him, and in them I loved him! I wrote to him for his autograph—he sent it. I sent him my photograph, and directly he saw it he proposed in terms that cloyed me with the sweet surfeit of their choice exuberance, imploring me at the same time to reply by telegraph. Then, maiden-like, I longed to toy and dally with his love. But Anglo-Indian telegraphic rates are high; so, much against my maiden will, I answered in one word—that one word, yes!
Mat. And ye’ve engaged yerself to a man whose face ye’ve niver seen?
Car. I’ve seen his soul!
Mat. And when d’ye think ye’ll see his body?