Marguerite leaned over and looked intently at his big, thin ear.
"What a lovely red your ear is, seen against a clear sky. It would make a beautiful lamp-shade."
"You may have both of them—and all the fixtures—solid brass—an antique some day."
He edged a little closer.
Marguerite coughed and pointed across the street: "Aren't those trees beautiful?"
"Oh, don't talk to me about trees! What do I care about wood! You're the tree that I want to dig up, and take home, and plant, and live under, and be buried by."
"That's a great deal—all in one sentence."
"Are you never going to love me a little, Marguerite?"
"How can I tell?"
"Don't torture me."