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"I suppose we might call him a romanticist," said I, "might we not?"

"Maiden passing fair, turn away thine eyes! Turn away thine eyes ere my bosom burn,

Her eyes flashed round upon me like stars themselves. "Not--Venus?" she whispered, snatched in her breath, bit her lip, and half averting her face, shot me through with both "twinklers" at once. Then she took a long look at the planets and suddenly exclaimed with a scandalized air--

"Well, I reckon I'll stop all night." I began to move on. His eyes followed greedily.

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