He was pouring out a glass of water, and, absorbed in the act, he merely grunted for answer. It was his disagreeable habit to grunt when grunting saved effort.
"I wish you'd talk to me, George. It is so annoying to be grunted at."
"Well, what do you want?" he replied amiably enough. "Patty is a regular sieve, you know. Never tell her a secret."
"Did you ever like that girl—really?"
"The girl mother had in mind?" Having emptied the glass, he returned it to the tray and came over to her. "Yes, but if you want the truth, I preferred the girl in the chorus—the one the old lady got in a blue funk about, you know. She's still there, the last but one from the end, in the Golden Slipper. I'll take you to see it some night."
"Men are strange," observed Gabriella, with philosophic detachment. "Now I couldn't feel the slightest interest in a man in comic opera. Did she really attract you?"
"Um—humph," he was grunting again.
"Wasn't she terribly common?"
"Um—humph."
"Wasn't she vulgar?"