"From a woman's standpoint," said Mr. Brassfield, "it probably seems so. But you and I can surely find matters of more mutual interest to talk about, can't we?"
"Perhaps," said the girl, "but I don't think of anything just now. Do you?"
"Well, for one thing," said he, "I have just found out what makes your eyes so beautiful."
"Wouldn't it be just as well to cease discovering things of that kind? It's so short a time to the fifth of April, you know."
"I've made all my money," said Brassfield, "by never quitting discovering. I like it. And this last find especially."
"I think there are other lines of investigation," said she, "which demand your time and attention."
"Oh, pshaw!" said he. "Don't be so prudish. You know that your eyes are beautiful, and you are not really offended when I tell you so. Such eyes are the books in which I like to read—I can understand them better than Browning, or the old Persian soak. It's not unpleasant to get a volume you understand—at times."
"Why, Mr. Amidon—Brassfield, I mean—aren't you ashamed of yourself!"
"A little," said he; "not much, though. And who is this 'Mr. Amman,' or whatever the name is, that is so much in your mind that you call me by his name when you speak without thinking?"
"A dear friend of mine!"