Was I so glad she was going that I was playful, elated? “My purpose,” said I, “has no point now; for even if I were to propose to amuse you—I believe that was the old formula—by an idle day somewhere, by an excursion, an—”
“An autobiography,” she broke in soothingly.
“Or an autobiography,” I repeated stolidly, “you would not, I fancy, be prepared to accept my services. There would be no chance—now that you are going away—for me to play the harlequin—”
“Whose office you could do pleasantly if it suited you—these adaptable natures!”
“Quite so. But it is all futile now, as I say.”
“Yes, you mentioned that before.—Well?”
“It is well,” I replied, dropping into a more meaning tone.
“You say it patriarchally, but yet flatteringly.” Here she casually offered me a flower. I mechanically placed it in my buttonhole. She seemed delighted at confusing me. But I kept on firmly.
“I do not think,” I rejoined gravely now, “that there need be any flattery between us.”
“Why?—We are not married.”