"Ah!" came another sigh--it was from the
China-girl-rising-out-of-a-pen-wiper--"how I pity you!"

"Do you?" said he eagerly. "Do you? Then I love you. Will you marry me?"

"Ah!" said she; "but--"

"She can't!" said the Cat-made-of-worsted. "She can't come to you. She
hasn't got any legs. I know it. I'm fifty years old. I never saw them."

"Never mind the Cat," said the Boy-leaning-against-a-greyhound.

"But I do mind the Cat," said she, weeping. "I haven't. It's all
pen-wiper."

"Do I care?" said he.

"She has thoughts," said the bronze Monk-reading-a-book. "That lasts
longer than beauty. And she is solid behind."

"And she has no hinge in her back," grinned the Cat-made-of-worsted.
"Come, neighbors, let us congratulate them. You begin."

"Keep out of disagreeable company," said the bronze Monk-reading-a-book.

"That is not congratulation; that is advice," said the
Cat-made-of-worsted. "Never mind, go on, my dear,"--to the Parian girl.
"What! nothing to say? Then I'll say it for you. 'Friends, may your love
last as long as your courtship.' Now I'll congratulate you."