“Not the funny parts,” I explained to him. “She thinks he is occasionally—”
“I know,” he interrupted, rather irritably, I thought; “a trifle vulgar.”
It surprised me that he should have guessed her exact words. “I don't think mamma has much sense of humour,” I explained to him. “Sometimes she doesn't even see papa's jokes.”
At that he laughed again. “But she likes the other parts?” he enquired, “the parts where Mr. Dickens isn't—vulgar?”
“Oh, yes,” I answered. “She says he can be so beautiful and tender, when he likes.”
Twilight was deepening. It occurred to me to enquire of him again the time.
“Just over the quarter,” he answered, looking at his watch.
“I'm so sorry,” I said. “I must go now.”
“So am I sorry, Paul,” he answered. “Perhaps we shall meet again. Good-bye.” Then as our hands touched: “You have never asked me my name, Paul,” he reminded me.
“Oh, haven't I?” I answered.