"You see," I explained, "there were conceivably other men in Arden—"
"I suppose so," she sighed, with exemplary resignation.
"—For you were," I reminded her, "universally admired at your uncle's court,—and equally so in the forest. And while Alfred—or, strictly speaking, Gamelyn, or, if you prefer it, Orlando,—is the great love of your life, still—"
"Men are so foolish!" said Rosalind, irrelevantly.
"—it did not prevent you—"
"Me!" cried she, indignant.
"You had such a tender heart," I suggested, "and suffering was abhorrent to your gentle nature."
"I don't like cynicism, sir," said she; "and inasmuch as tobacco is not yet discovered—"
"It is clearly impossible that I am smoking," I finished; "quite true."
"I don't like cheap wit, either," said Rosalind. "You," she went on, with no apparent connection, "are a forester, with a good cross-bow and an unrequited attachment,—say, for me. You groan and hang verses and things about on the trees."