"Pauline," said Guy, affectionately rallying her, "aren't you being rather naughty—rather wilful, really? Didn't you like Michael?"
"Guy, you can't expect me to know whether I liked him in a minute. He made me feel shyer than even most people do."
"Well, let's talk about the book instead," said Guy, "What color shall the binding be?"
"What color did he suggest?"
"I see you're determined to be horrid about my poor, harmless Michael."
"Well, why must he be brought down like this to approve of your book?"
"Oh, he has good taste, and besides he's interested in you and me."
"What did you tell him about us?" Pauline asked, sharply.
"Nothing, my dearest, nothing," said Guy, flinging his stick for Bob to chase over the furrows. "At least," he added, turning and looking down at her with eyebrows arched in pretended despair of her unreasonableness, "I expect I bored him to death with singing your praises."
Still Pauline could not feel charitable, and still she could not smile at Guy.