“We’ll have to get up some excitement,” said Matthew kindly.
She winced. “Don’t treat me as if I were a three-year-old.”
“I couldn’t. I treat you as if you were what you are—a charming woman.”
“You think I’m an awful fool, don’t you?”
He went over to her and leaned over the back of her chair, pushing her hair back from her forehead. “Pretty Fliss!”
She jumped up, away from his touch. “That’s it! That’s all of it. Pretty Fliss! I might be a puppy; I might be an idiot.”
Matthew waited for her to go on, and after a minute she did.
“I get so tired of—of being a jazzer—of having you think I’m just a jazzer. I think a lot of things, truly I do, Matthew,” she added, naïvely.
“Of course you do.”
“Don’t say it like that—soothingly. Say it as if you meant it.”