"How wonderfully you talk!" she said, with good-natured mockery. "You are scientifically frank. You were bored with yourself.—Then there is some hope for your future wife. . . . We have had many talks in our acquaintance, Dr. Marmion, but none so interesting as this promises to be. But now tell me what your purpose was in coming. 'Purpose' seems portentous, but quite in keeping."
I noticed here the familiar, almost imperceptible click of the small white teeth.
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.