The moon's
rays have kissed the Blarney-stone, Harry. A moonlight truth is a
noonday lie."
"Doesn't the genial warmth of the sun ever lead one from the path of
truth?" queried Harry, satirical of manner.
"Yes," I answered. "But not in a horse-car with people treading on your
feet."
"What has that to do with it?" Harry asked.
"It was on a Broadway car that Maude confessed," I answered.
Harry looked blue. His eyes said: "Gad! How she must love you!" But his
lips said: "Ho! Nonsense!"
"It is the truth," said I, seeing that Harry was weakening. "As we were
waiting for the car to come along I said to her: 'Maude, I am not the
man I ought to be, but I have one redeeming quality: I love you to
distraction.'
"She was about to reply when the car came. We were requested to step
lively. We did so, and the car started. Then as we stood in the crowded
aisle of the car we spoke in enigmas.
"'Did you hear what I said, Maude?' I asked.
"'Yes,' said she, gazing softly out of the window, and a slight touch of
red coming into her cheeks. 'Yes, I heard.'
"'And what is your reply?' I whispered.
"'So do I,' she answered, with a sigh."
Harry laughed, and so irritatingly that had his name been Thomas I
should have struck him.
"What is the joke?" I asked.
"You won't think it's funny," Harry answered.
"Then it must be a poor joke," I retorted, a little nettled. "Well,
it's on you," he said.
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