"I should scarcely take the liberty upon a limited acquaintance," he began.
She looked at him steadily, fanning herself with slow, regular movements.
"Yes," she remarked. "You're mad. I knew you were."
He was so evidently disgusted by this observation, that she caught at the meaning of his look, and laughed a little.
"Ah!" she said, "that's an American word, ain't it? It sounds queer to you. You say 'vexed' instead of 'mad.' Well, then, you are vexed."
"If I have been so clumsy as to appear ill-humored," he said, "I beg pardon. Certainly I have no right to exhibit such unusual interest in your conduct."
He felt that this was rather decidedly to the point, but she did not seem overpowered at all. She smiled anew.
"Anybody has a right to be mad—I mean vexed," she observed. "I should like to know how people would live if they hadn't. I am mad—I mean vexed—twenty times a day."
"Indeed?" was his sole reply.
"Well," she said, "I think it's real mean in you to be so cool about it when you remember what I told you the other day."