"Now you are getting crazy again."
"No, I was never saner."
"Very likely, but you are crazy now. Why, Drowsy, being only a man, you don't realize how lucky we are that it was not binding!"
"Lucky for you, perhaps," said Cyrus, "but not for me. I am sure you are even more desirable, more beautiful, more generally perfect and irresistible—if possible—than you were then."
"On the contrary. If you could see me by daylight you would shout for joy at your escape."
"No, Ruth, you can't fool me that way. Are you little or big?"
He groped about and laid a hand on her shoulder. "I should say you were little."
She pushed away the hand. "Keep your hands to yourself, Cyrus. You forget we are no longer children."
Cyrus obeyed. "True enough. But we were really married, you know. Surely a husband may touch his wife's shoulder. Tell me, have you the same wonder-working eyes and mouth and haughty bearing? You are not a great big woman, I have discovered that."
"No, I am neither big nor lovely. I am little and dried up—and wrinkled, like a baked apple—and surprisingly ugly."