“You are perfectly disgusting!” said Jane. “I’ll never go to a cemetery with you again. Luncheon! Who wants luncheon here?”
“Very few,” said he grimly, gazing over the tombs.
“Now you’re trying to be smart—at the expense of these poor things. Ah! look at that tiny grave with the white flower in the little vase.”
“Some child.”
“Yes; a thing with a great sash that was flying its kite or spinning its top the other day, and now it’s here.”
“Or hitting shuttlecocks about the street.”
“Yes,” wiping her cheek where the shuttlecock had hit her—then suddenly: “I think men are beasts,” addressing the distant hills.
“I’m with you there.”
“No, you’re not; all men are just the same.”
“I suppose you mean to infer in a roundabout way that I’m a beast. Thanks.”