I hope you 'll be very happy, Tom;" and Polly shook his hands with a smile that was more pathetic than a flood of tears.
"What!" cried Tom, looking as if he thought she had lost her mind.
"Ned told us all about her; he thought it would be so, and when you spoke of another engagement, we knew you meant your own." "But I did n't! Ned's the man; he told me to tell you.

It 's just settled." "Is it Maria ?" cried Polly, holding on to a chair as if to be prepared for anything.
"Of course.

Who else should it be ?" "He did n't say you talked about her most and so we thought" stammered Polly, falling into a sudden flutter.
"That I was in love?
Well, I am, but not with her." "Oh!" and Polly caught her breath as if a dash of cold water had fallen on her, for the more in earnest Tom grew, the blunter he became.
"Do you want to know the name of the girl I 've loved for more than a year?
Well, it 's Polly!" As he spoke, Tom stretched out his arms to her, with the sort of mute eloquence that cannot be resisted, and Polly went straight into them, without a word.
Never mind what happened for a little bit.

Love scenes, if genuine, are indescribable; for to those who have enacted them, the most elaborate description seems tame, and to those who have not, the simplest picture seems overdone.

So romancers had better let imagination paint for them that which is above all art, and leave their lovers to themselves during the happiest minutes of their lives.
Before long, Tom and Polly were sitting side by side, enjoying the blissful state of mind which usually follows the first step out of our work-a-day world, into the glorified region wherein lovers rapturously exist for a month or two.