"Lucky Dicky," says Roger, with an only half-suppressed sneer, which brings down upon him a withering glance from his betrothed.
"How I hate rain," she says, pettishly, tapping the window with two impatient little fingers.
"I love it," says Roger, unpleasantly.
"Love rain!" with an air of utter disbelief. "How can you make such a ridiculous remark! I never heard of any one who liked rain."
"Well, you hear of me now. I like it."
"Oh! nonsense," says Miss Blount, contemptuously.
"It isn't nonsense!" exclaims he, angrily, "I suppose I am entitled to my own likes and dislikes. You can hate rain as much as you do me if you wish it; but at least allow me to—"
"Love it, as you do me," with an artificial laugh, and a soft shrug of her rounded shoulders. "It is perfectly absurd, in spite of your obstinate determination to say you do, I don't believe you can have a desire for wet weather."
"Thank you!" indignantly. "That is simply giving me the lie direct. I must say you can be uncivil when you choose."
"Uncivil!"