"It's very sweet of you—but do you ever realise——I wonder if it's ever struck you, Val, that men aren't always in the mood for heavenly jokes? There are times when one likes to think—to see life as it is—to discuss abstract things, even."
"Oh! Well ... what do you think of Daphne's dress? Isn't it pretty? It was made by Ogburn, all out of nothing, in no time."
He looked at Daphne, who was sitting under a tree reading Cyril's last letter over again.
"It's all right. It suits her. I don't call that a serious subject."
"What subject would you like, then?"
"Well—Romer, for instance. Where is he?"
"Talking to the gardener about mowing. Do you want him? I'll call him if you like."
"Dear Val, it's not quite like you to be ironical to me.... You ought not to laugh at Romer either. I'm complex, perhaps—I know I am; but it jars on me when you do that."
She stared at him.
"Look here—I know I'm tiresome," said Harry, returning to his usual caressing manner. "Don't take any notice of it. It's—the weather, I think, or want of exercise. I'll go and improvise a little."