He stroked his chin reflectively.
“Well, to begin with,” he said, “you’re passionate.”
She burst into sudden, uncontrollable, crackling laughter. In the empty spaces of the Forest it sounded like musketry.
“I knew you’d say that.... I knew you would. And for the life of me I don’t know whether you’re right or wrong. Every woman likes to think she’s passionate. And nobody knows whether she’s any more passionate than anybody else.... Pass on to the next point. You may be right or you may be wrong about the last.”
“You’re impulsive—but good-natured.”
“Oh, rather. A kind heart beneath a rough exterior, eh?”
“I’m quite serious.”
“Are you? I’m not.”
She frisked along in front of him, revelling in the rustle of last autumn’s leaves.
“Do you know what I should do if I were serious?” she asked suddenly, when he had caught up to her.