"Never let me hear you use that word again. It is provincial, suburban and, worse, it is shopgirl."
"Yes, dear."
"This evening I saw you eat an ice with a spoon. Never do that. Use a fork."
"Yes, dear."
Appeased by this docility, Loftus condescended to agree in turn with her. He, too, liked the park. At night, when the weather was decent, always he sat there a bit quite by himself. He had done so for years. He told her this, adding confidentially, "It is a habit."
To Marie the habit seemed most poetic. She said so, explaining that she was very fond of poetry.
Loftus looked up at the stars. "The only real poetry is there. By the way, do you believe in God?"
Marie, uncertain of her lover's creeds, hesitatingly glanced at him. "Yes—in a way. But I won't, if you object."
This self-abnegation pleased Loftus. He twisted his mustache and smiled. "But no, you little goose, I don't object in the least. On the contrary. It is right and proper that you should."
Gratified at this encouraging indulgence the girl's hand stole into his. Then for awhile they sat and talked about nothing whatever, which, of all subjects, is, perhaps, the least disagreeable. Wearying at last even of that, they got up to go.