“Phyllis once and for all, will you marry me?”
“I can’t,” she answered, looking at him with wide, innocent eyes. “And I am glad I can’t, because you have such a temper!”
“Why can’t you?” he demanded, ignoring the latter part of her remark.
“Because I can’t.”
“That is no answer.”
“I can’t really!” she affirmed.
“Why did you consent to walk with me this afternoon, then?” he asked in an injured tone. “You seemed quite glad to come, and now—”
“Yes, I was glad. I thought you would be amusing, but you are not—no, not one bit. You are simply horrid. If that is your idea of making love—”
“Be nice to me as you were when we were in London, and you shall see if I can make love to your satisfaction.”
“But you mustn’t make love to me.”