"A woman would not find me a tragic hero."
"Oh, no! She must dress for general comedy—such as your mother once described to me—where the most thrilling event is the drawing of a handsome check."
"You are a naughty fairy," said Harold, daring to press Esther's hand a little more closely to him, and drawing her down the eastern steps into the pleasure-ground, as if he were unwilling to give up the conversation. "Confess that you are disgusted with my want of romance."
"I shall not confess to being disgusted. I shall ask you to confess that you are not a romantic figure."
"I am a little too stout."
"For romance—yes. At least you must find security for not getting stouter."
"And I don't look languishing enough?"
"Oh, yes—rather too much so—at a fine cigar."
"And I am not in danger of committing suicide?"
"No; you are a widower."