"Why do you like me so awfully?" she asked.
"Because you are you, and because you are mine."
"Haven't we been horrid to each other this afternoon?"
Paul smiled. "I have been horrid, but you are never anything but charming, sweetheart."
"Oh! I know I'm none the less charming for being horrid sometimes; and—to tell the truth—neither are you. I believe that we are both nicest when we are nasty, and that when we hate each other we love each other the most."
Then they both laughed and went out and walked along the unfrequented and grassy ways of the park.
"Are you going to the Fulfords' to-night?" asked Isabel.
"No; they haven't asked me. Are you?"
"Not if you are not; I hate the parties that you don't go to. To adapt an old bull, you spoil half the parties by not being asked to them."
Paul shrugged his shoulders. "It is my misfortune and not my fault; for I am green with jealousy of every living soul who is invited to a party where there is a chance of meeting you."