He kissed the words again and again.

He put them into his bosom, and took them out again, and gloated over them till they danced before his manly eyes.

Then his love took another turn: he started up, and marched and strutted, like a young stag, about the room, with one hand pressing the paper to his bosom.

Why had he said Wednesday?
It could all have been got ready on Tuesday.

No matter, he would make up for that lost day.