Miss T. That's real noble! And I presume, now, you cann't imagine any reason why she's been treading you so flat.
Culch. (with a shrug). I really haven't troubled to speculate. Who can tell how one may, quite unconsciously, give offence—even to those who are—er—comparative strangers?
Miss T. Just so. (A pause.) Well, Mr. Culchard, if I wanted anything to confirm my opinion of you, I guess you've given it me!
Culch. (internally). It's very unfortunate that she will insist on idealizing me like this!
Miss T. Maybe, now, you can form a pretty good idea already what that opinion is?
Culch. (in modest deprecation). You give me some reason for inferring that it is far higher than I deserve.
Miss T. Well, I don't know that you've missed your guess altogether. Are you through your ice-cream yet?
Culch. Almost. (He finishes his ice.) It is really most refreshing.
Miss T. Then, now you're refreshed, I'll tell you what I think about you. (Culchard resigns himself to enthusiasm.) My opinion of you, Mr. Culchard, is that, taking you by and large, you amount to what we Amurrcans describe as "a pretty mean cuss."
Culch. (genuinely surprised). A mean cuss? Me! Really, this unjustifiable language is most——!