He. Then there was Miss French. I loved her because she snubbed me,—just as I loved Nora Delaney for her riding, and Annie Cleaves for her music.
She. And now you love me, I am to understand, as suited to the position of court jester to your Royal Highness.
He. One must have some sort of a reason for being in love.
She. But one needn’t be in love.
He. Oh, yes; life is very dull otherwise; and besides, I have always thought it very stupid to marry without having been in love a dozen times at least. One is apt to lose his head otherwise; and how can he judge of the value of his passion without having had a good deal of experience?
She. So you advertise yourself as a marrying man?
He. Every bachelor is a marrying man. It is only a question of finding a convenient wife.
She. Like a convenient house, I suppose.
He. Exactly.
She. I wonder any woman ever consents to marry a man.