“I am not a child. I am nineteen years of age—and a woman.”
“I believe that, for you possess all the art of a woman in tormenting a man. Where did you learn it?”
“Learn what?”
“The art of being cruel, kind, merry, sad, delightful, yet tormenting.”
“Do you mean to say I possess all these contradictory qualities at one and the same time?”
“Well, you are capricious at times.”
“Oh, indeed!” said Helena pettishly, resuming her task. “Then I must be full of faults.”
“They are very charming faults, at all events.”
“I am not listening, Maurice. I am too busy with this wreath.”
“My wreath.”