He. Since you are here yourself, you might be supposed to regard the place as sufficiently interesting to attract the traveller.
She. Then you decline to tell me?
He. Oh, no; I came because you amuse me.
She. Thank you for nothing.
He. And consequently I am in love with you, as I did myself the honor to mention before you left New York.
She. Am I to understand that amusement is your idea of love?
He. Love certainly must be something that does not bore one.
She. But it seems a somewhat limited view to take.
He. Oh, it is only one way out of many; I assure you I have quantities of ideas upon the subject, all founded upon experience. I loved Lottie Greenwell because she made a glorious champagne cup. Indeed, for ten days I positively adored her, until one night she put in too much curaçoa, and I realized how uncertain a foundation my passion had. Then there was Elsie Manning. My passion for her was roused entirely by her divine waltzing, but I realized that it isn’t good form for a man to waltz with his wife, and I stood a much better chance if she married some other man. After that came Kate Turner; she writes so fascinating a letter that I lost my heart every time I saw her handwriting on the back of an envelope, although perhaps that feeling you would call only a fancy, since nobody would think of marrying on a virtue that is sure to end with the wedding. A wife never writes to her husband about anything but the servants and the payment of her milliner’s bills; so my flirtation with her wouldn’t really count as a love affair.
She. You excel in nice metaphysical distinctions.