He toasted with cool ambiguity: "To a rapport more complete."
With professional ease the waiter faded from their knowledge; and the woman dimpled bewitchingly, patting the broad seat of the fender.
"Come, sit by my side, Michael: let us talk."
"With all the pleasure in life," he assented, placing himself at a discreeter distance than she had designated—"on one condition, my dear Liane: none of your artfulness."
"Michael!" she reproached, delighted—"you don't trust me?"
"Really, you read one's mind."
"Don't be alarmed, my old one." She made a face to match her tone of mocking reassurance. "I was mad about you once, I don't deny; but that was long ago. Besides, you little know me if you think it likely I would lay myself open to be scorned another time."
"I little know you," Lanyard conceded, "whatever I may think; and I've got the quaintest notion, Liane, that the less I learn about you the more likely I am to enjoy ordinary peace of mind. Be a good child, now; treat me as you would a father, not as you might a prospective papa. Tell me: what the deuce is your little game?"
"'Game'?" she repeated, petulant. "Michael, my dear! your manners aren't as good as they were when your morals were worse."
"Admit that you didn't ask me up here to amuse yourself with innocent flirtation."