For
I am pastorally inclined this morning, Patricia; I wish to lie at your
feet and pipe amorous ditties upon an oaten reed. Have you such an
article about you, Patricia?"
He drew a key-ring from his pocket, and pondered over it.
"Or would you prefer that I whistle into the opening of this door-key,
to the effect that we must gather our rose-buds while we may, for Time
is still a-flying, fa-la, and that a drear old age, not to mention our
spouses, will soon descend upon us, fa-la-di-leero? A door-key is not
Arcadian, Patricia, but it makes a very creditable noise."
"Don't be foolish, _mon ami_!" she protested, with an indulgent smile.
"I am unhappy."
"Unhappy that I have chanced to fall in love with you, Patricia? It is
an accident which might befall any really intelligent person."
She shrugged her shoulders, ruefully.
"I have done wrong to let you talk to me as you have done of late.
I--oh, Jack, I am afraid!"
Mr. Charteris meditated. Somewhere in a neighboring thicket a bird
trilled out his song--a contented, half-hushed song that called his mate
to witness how infinitely blest above all other birds was he.
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