"You need not. It is only a vent. Everyone must have a vent of some sort, otherwise the contents of their mind turn sour. Yours is fiction; you don't need the puny consolation of verse, which is my only outlet."
"You are very sarcastic."
"So were you."
"If you always take your tone from me——" she began, and stopped.
"I should have my tongue under better control, you were about to add," he suggested.
"Nothing of the sort. I forget what I meant. I am not in a mood for rational conversation this evening."
"Nor I. Let us talk nonsense."
"No, thank you. I can't do that well enough to be interesting. Go and talk to Mr. Haldane; he studies nonsense as a fine art."
"I accept my dismissal; thank you for giving it so unequivocally," he answered, huffily, and, turning on his heel, marched away, and spoke to her no more that evening.
Later, when the darkness had fallen, and the company were dispersed to their various homes, Henry Fowler, coming from the stable through the garden, was arrested by the scent of his guest's cigar, and joined him on the rustic seat under the trees.