"What a nice thing it is to be interested in politics," she says, petulantly, at last.
He is deeply immersed in a synopsis of the speech of Senator Winans, having missed it the preceding day by being absorbed in contemplation of the Senator's wife; but he looks up to retort, lightly:
"What a nice thing it is to be a belle and take on airs."
She pouts, with a toss of her small head, then smiles.
"Meaning me?" she queries.
"Meaning you," he answers, glancing at the white fingers that go straying over the keys, waking a low accompaniment, to which she sings, softly:
"Violets, roses,
Sweet-scented posies,
Who'll buy my roses,
All scattered with dew?"
"Meaning the mammoth bouquet that came this morning with the captain's compliments?" he interrupts her to ask, with a glimmer of fun in his dark eye.
She breaks off, laughing, half-blushing, and saucily retorting: