ne or two bits of
music Schubert wrote on this subject of Love--we don't flinch from our
phraseology; we know that all will understand it whom we care should
do so. By-the-bye, Dr. Vereker was partly German, and a musician.
Agur can have had no experience of either. The ancestors of Schubert
and Beethoven were splendid savages in his day, sleeping on the
snow-wreaths in the forests of the north; and somewhere among them
there was a germ of a love-passion that was one day to ring changes
on the peals that were known to Agur, the son of Jakeh.

But this is wandering from the point, and all the while Sally and her
lover have been climbing that hill again, and are now walking over the
lonely down above, towards the sun, and their shadows are long behind
them--at least, their shadow; for they have but one, and we fancy we
have let some of our record slip, for the man's arm is round the
girl's waist. Yes, some further clearer understanding has come into
their lives, and maybe Sally sees by now that the vote she passed
_nem. con._ may be rescinded in the end.

If you had been near them then, invisible, we know you would not have
gone close and listened. You would have been too honourable. But you
would only have heard this--take our word for it!

"Do you know what I always call you behind your back? I always call
you Prosy. I don't know why."

"Because I _am_ prosy--level-headed, slow sort of card--but prosy
beyond a doubt."

"No, you're not. I don't think you know the least what you're like.
But I shall call you Prosy, all the same, or whatever I choose!"

"You don't take to Conrad, somehow?"

"It sounds so reproachful. It's like William."

"Does William sound reproachful?"

"Of course it does! Willy-yum! A most reproachful name. No, Prosy
dear, I shall call you Prosy, whatever the consequences may be. People
must put their own construction upon it."

"Mother calls me Conny very often."

"When she's not taking exception to you ... oh, no! I know. I was only
joking ... there, then! we won't quarrel and go home opposite ways
about that. Besides, I'm the young lady...."

"Oh, Sally darling, dearest, it does make me feel such a fool. Please
don't!"

"Stuff and nonsense, Prosy dear! I shall, if I choose. So there!...
No, but seriously--_why_ did you think I shouldn't get on well with
your mother?" Poor Prosy looks very much embarrassed at this point;
his countenance pleads for respite. But Sally won't let him off.