"You think he likes you?"
"Yes," reluctantly.
"I believe he adores the very ground you walk on."
"Oh, no, indeed."
"If you say that, he isn't a real lover. A real one, to my mind, ought to be ready and willing to kiss the impressions your heels may make in the earth."
"That would be the act of a fool; and Mr. Desmond is not a fool."
"Ergo, not a lover. And yet I think he is yours. Monica," coaxingly, "did he say any pretty things to you?"
"What should he say? I only met him twice."
"You are prevaricating," gazing at her severely. "Why don't you answer me honestly?"
"I don't know what you call 'pretty things.'"