THE HILL OF ILLUSION.
HE.—Tell your men not to hurry so, dear. They forget I'm fresh from the Plains.
She.—Sure proof that I have not been going out with any one. Yes, they are an untrained crew. Where do we go?
He.—As usual—to the world's end. No, Jakko.
She.—Have your pony led after you, then. It's a long round.
He.—And for the last time, thank Heaven!
She.—Do you mean that still? I didn't dare to write to you about it—all these months.
He.—Mean it! I've been shaping my affairs to that end since Autumn. What makes you speak as though it had occurred to you for the first time?
She.—I? Oh! I don't know. I've had long enough to think, too.
He.—And you've changed your mind?
She.—No. You ought to know that I am a miracle of constancy. What are yourarrangements?
He.—Ours, Sweetheart, please.
She.—Ours, be it then. My poor boy, how the prickly-heat has marked your forehead! Have you ever tried sulphate of copper in water?
He.—It'll go away in a day or two up here. The arrangements are simple enough. Tonga in the early morning—reach Kalka at twelve—Umballa at seven—down, straight by night-train, to Bombay, and then the steamer of the 21st for Rome. That's my idea. The Continent and Sweden—a ten-week honeymoon.
