"Of course I know I'm not handsome," he observed. "So that was rather a nasty dig of yours about being 'ornamental.' But you made one mistake. I am useful."
"Are you? For what?" enquired Mary, carefully separating bulbs. "I always thought you just a bright butterfly."
"You never thought about me at all," he declared with emphasis. "But I have thought a good deal about you."
He took out a cigar and a pearl-handled knife, cut the end of the cigar neatly, and lit it with a match from a gold box. Then clasping his broad white hands about his knee, he contemplated Mary's grave profile. She seemed absorbed in her work and did not look up at him, nor betray by the flicker of an eyelash any interest in what he thought. Still less did she enquire into it. The silence lasted until he broke it, petulantly.
"Mrs. Carlin, why do you dislike me?"
"I don't dislike you—at least I think not."
"You think not! Don't you know whether you do or not?... You strike me as a person who would know her own mind!"
"Yes—but I'm not very quick about making up my mind. I don't feel I know you at all well."
"You've known me for two years.... How long does it take you to make up your mind?"
"Well, that depends—longer now than it used to. I don't feel that I know very much about anybody. I used to be more sure about things."