“Ess, ’deedums!” said the silvery voice.

“But if he didn’t, then he wouldn’t,” said William vehemently.  “But when a man really loves a girl he will.  Now, you take a man like that and he can generally do just about anything the girl he loves wants him to.  Say, f’rinstance, she wants him to love her even more than he does already—­or almost anything like that—­and supposin’ she asks him to.  Well, he would go ahead and do it.  If they really loved each other he would!”

He paused a moment, then in a lowered tone he said, “I think real love is sacred, don’t you?”

“Ess.”

“Don’t you think love is the most sacred thing there is—­that is, if it’s real love?”

“Ess.”

“I do,” said William, warmly.  “I—­I’m glad you feel like that, because I think real love is the kind nobody could have but just once in their lives, but if it isn’t real love, why—­why most people never have it at all, because—­” He paused, seeming to seek for the exact phrase which would express his meaning. “—­Because the real love a man feels for a girl and a girl for a man, if they really love each other, and, you look at a case like that, of course they would both love each other, or it wouldn’t be real love well, what I say is, if it’s real love, well, it’s—­it’s sacred, because I think that kind of love is always sacred.  Don’t you think love is sacred if it’s the real thing?”

“Ess,” said Miss Pratt.  “Do Flopit again.  Be Flopit!”

“Berp-werp!  Berp-werp-werp.”

And within the library an agonized man writhed and muttered: 

“Word!  Word!  Word—­”

This hoarse repetition had become almost continuous.

...  But out on the porch, that little, jasmine-scented bower in Arcady where youth cried to youth and golden heads were haloed in the moonshine, there fell a silence.  Not utter silence, for out there an ethereal music sounded constantly, unheard and forgotten by older ears.  Time was when the sly playwrights used “incidental music” in their dramas; they knew that an audience would be moved so long as the music played; credulous while that crafty enchantment lasted.  And when the galled Mr. Parcher wondered how those young people out on the porch could listen to each other and not die, it was because he did not hear and had forgotten the music that throbs in the veins of youth.  Nevertheless, it may not be denied that despite his poor memory this man of fifty was deserving of a little sympathy.

It was William who broke the silence.  “How—­” he began, and his voice trembled a little.  “How—­how do you—­how do you think of me when I’m not with you?”

“Think nice-cums,” Miss Pratt responded.  “Flopit an’ me think nice-cums.”

“No,” said William; “I mean what name do you have for me when you’re when you’re thinking about me?”