Baby Van Rensselaer: Long enough, however, to discover that she was “bright.”
Dear Jones: Quite long enough, Miss Van Rensselaer. One may find out a great deal of another’s character in half an hour.
There was a pause, which was filled by the strains of a Virginia reel, coming from one of the cottages high up on the bank, where an impromptu dance was just begun. The moonlight fell on Baby Van Rensselaer’s little white teeth, set firmly between her parted lips. The pause was broken.
Baby Van Rensselaer: If you propose to descend to brutality of this sort, Mr. Jones, I think we need prolong neither the conversation—nor the acquaintance.
Dear Jones [honestly]: No—you can’t mean that—Miss Van Rensselaer—Baby—
Baby Van Rensselaer: What, sir! Your familiarity is—I can’t stand familiarity from you! (She clenches her little hands.)
Dear Jones: You have no right to treat me like this. If I am familiar it is because I love you—and you know it!
Baby Van Rensselaer: This is the first I have heard of it, sir. I trust it will be the last. Will you kindly permit me to pass, or must I—
Dear Jones: You may go where you wish, Miss Van Rensselaer—No, come, this is ridiculous—
Baby Van Rensselaer: Is it?