indeed, that nothing in the world seems to matter so long as you are
here."

He (striding a little nearer, and looking about involuntarily for a
ladder). "Penelope, do you know the penalty of saying such sweet
things to me?"

I. "Perhaps it is because I know the penalty that I'm committing
the offence. Besides, I feel safe in saying anything in this
second-story window."

He. "Don't pride yourself on your safety unless you wish to see me
transformed into a nineteenth-century Romeo, to the detriment of
Mrs. Bobby's creepers. I can look at you for ever, dear, in your
pink gown and your purple frame, unless I can do better. Won't you
come down?"

I. "I like it very much up here."

He. "You would like it very much down here, after a little. So you
didn't 'paint me out,' after all?"

I. "No; on the contrary, I painted you in, to every twig and
flower, every hill and meadow, every sunrise and every sunset."

He. "You MUST come down! The distance between Belvern and Aix when
I was not sure that you loved me was nothing compared to having you
in a second story when I know that you do. Come down, Pen! Pretty
Pen!"