Harry laughed.
"Tell me, Alec, is your mother a soothing companion? Is she a nice woman to live with?"
"Oh! she's all right. A bit [off colour] sometimes. At least—well, she is all right, if you understand—and yet she's not—if you know what I mean."
"Ah! that is a dark saying. You are pleased to be mysterious—sphinx-like."
"You are a rotter, Harry!"
"How subtle you are, Alec. How elusive is the lightning-play of your wit!"
"How much?"
"The random poppy of paradox grows too often in the golden cornfield of your conversation," Harry went on, taking her hand.
"Oh, rats!" exclaimed the artless girl. "Can't make out what you're driving at half the time, when you go on like that. Don't believe you know yourself."
"Don't I? Really now, you know, we're almost—well—privately engaged. May I kiss you, Alec?"