He. (With a thrill of delight and a sudden burst of strategy.) "I can hold on to this branch, if my arm will not inconvenience you."
She. "Oh no! not particularly:" (he passes his right arm behind her, and takes hold of a bough:) "but I should think it's not very comfortable for you."
He. "I couldn't be more comfortable, I'm sure." (Nearly slips off the tree, and doubles up his legs into an unpicturesque attitude highly suggestive of misery.—A pause.) "And do you tell your secrets here?"
She. "My secrets? Oh, I see—you mean, with Kitty. Oh, yes! if this tree could talk, it would be able to tell such dreadful stories."
He. "I wonder if it could tell any dreadful stories of—me?"
She. "Of you? Oh, no! Why should it? We are only severe on those we dislike."
He. "Then you don't dislike me?"
She. "No!—why should we?"
He. "Well—I don't know—but I thought you might. Well, I'm glad, of that—I'm very glad of that, 'Pon my word, it's very hot! don't you think so?"
She. "Yes! I'm burning. But I don't think we should find a cooler place." (Does not evince any symptoms of moving.)
He. "Well, p'raps we shouldn't." (A pause.) "Do you know that I'm very glad you don't dislike me; because, it wouldn't have been pleasant to be disliked by you, would it?"
She. "Well—of course, I can't tell. It depends upon one's own feelings."
