"Are you offended with me?" I asked, as we waltzed a weird but heavenly Hungarian waltz (made in Germany).
"Why do you ask that?" he wanted to know.
"Because you looked offended at dinner. What had I done? Eaten something with the wrong fork?"
"You had done nothing I oughtn't to have been prepared to see you do."
"What ought you to be prepared to see me do?"
"It doesn't matter now."
"It does. If you don't tell me, I shall scream 'Murder' at the top of my lungs, and then you'll have to speak."
"I certainly wouldn't. I'd bundle you home at once."
"I haven't got any home."
"My home is yours, till you marry."