"Now!" cried Harry. "Tea, crumpets, cakes. No crumpets? Toast." He instructed the waiter with the assurance of one who has entertained since the days of undergraduate life. Having seen the waiter depart upon his errand, he then cleared a vase of flowers from the table, and moved a dish which stood in his way. Then, with wrists upon the table, he stared at Patricia. "Darling!" he said. "I seem to feel most at home with you when you're in a rage. There's a little nick ... see...."
"Never mind the little nick," said Patricia, sternly. Her heart had begun to sink again. "I wasn't going to talk to you like this; but I must." Harry waved his hand, as if giving her free permission to change her mind without restraint. "I want to ask you several things. You needn't answer if you don't want to...."
"You want to ask me about Rhoda!" suggested Harry, his smile deepening. There was no quelling his easy confidence.
"That was one thing," admitted Patricia, also in no way superficially discomposed, although her heart was struggling.
"I thought so. Well, now, Rhoda—mind, I'm very fond of her—is nothing at all to me."
"Has she been?"
"Oh! Oh!" He protested at such a demand. "No, she hasn't been. I admit that she may think ... I'd better put it like this: she thinks she's in love with me."
"I see. Then, the other thing I wanted to ask is this. You see, I'm not sure if I'm in love with you or not."
"You soon would be," he interrupted. "Sure, I mean. I'm in love with you."
"That was just it. You've been in love before."