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Where, from a practical point of view, is the sense of such questions as
these--"When did you love me first?" "What did you feel when I said
so-and-so?" "Have you dreamt of me often?" "Will you love me always,
always, always?" and so on _ad infinitum_. "Ridiculous rubbish!"
exclaims the would-be strong-minded, but secretly savage old maid,--and
the selfishly matter-of-fact, but privately fidgety and lonely old
bachelor. Ah! but there are those who could tell you that at one time or
another of their lives this "ridiculous rubbish" seemed far more
important than the decline and fall of empires,--more necessary to
existence than light and air,--more fraught with hope, fear, suspense,
comfort, despair, and anxiety than anything that could be invented or
imagined! Philip and Thelma,--man and woman in the full flush of youth,
health, beauty, and happiness,--had just entered their Paradise,--their
fairy-garden,--and every little flower and leaf on the way had special,
sweet interest for them.


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