There is a gleam of deviltry in her eyes, and she whispers solemnly,—
"Begin with a D," and she traces imaginary letters across his forehead, and ending with a flick over his ear, says, "and that is the tail of the y!" After a short silence she queries: "Are you fond of me?" She is rubbing her chin up and down his face.
"Of course I am, don't you know it?"
"Yes, perhaps I do," impatiently; "but I want to be told it. A woman doesn't care a fig for a love as deep as the death-sea and as silent; she wants something that tells her it in little waves all the time. It isn't the love, you know, it's the being loved; it isn't really the man, it's his loving!"
"By Jove, you're a rum un!"
"I wish I wasn't, then. I wish I was as commonplace as—You don't tell me anything about myself," a fierce little kiss; "you might, even if it were lies. Other men who cared for me told me things about my eyes, my hands, anything. I don't believe you notice."
"Yes I do, little one, only I think it."
"Yes, but I don't care a bit for your thinking; if I can't see what's in your head, what good is it to me?"
"I wish I could understand you, dear!"
"I wish to God you could! Perhaps if you were badder and I were gooder we'd meet half-way. You are an awfully good old chap; it's just men like you send women like me to the devil!"