"You never get on my nerves," said Roger suggestively.
"Not when I chop up your best pink roses?" She looked at him sideways, dimpling a little.
"As long as you don't chop up your own pink fingers—you've got pretty fingers, Alwynne——"
"Roger, you're a comforting person. I wish—I wish Clare would treat me as you do, sometimes. You pull me up too, but you never make me nervous. I'm sure I shouldn't disappoint her so often, if she did."
"Alwynne," he returned with a twinkle, "stop talking. I've made a discovery."
"Well?"
"You're ten times fonder of me than you are of that good lady. Now, own up."
"Roger!" Alwynne was outraged. She made efforts to sit upright, but Roger's arm did not move. It was a strong arm and it held her, if anything, a trifle more firmly. "You're talking rot. Please let me sit up."
"You're all right. It's quite true, my child, and you know it. Ah, yes—they're a lovely colour, aren't they?"
For Alwynne was gazing at the tulips with elaborate indifference. Secretly she was a little excited. Here was a new Roger.... He was quite mad, of course, but rather a dear.... She wondered what he would say next....