“No, don’t do that. I haven’t had a chance to talk to you since you arrived.”
“I shall ruin my shoes.”
“Put your feet up on my lap.”
“All right. And you can tickle my ankles.”
“Quite.”
Matters were accordingly arranged on these lines, and for some minutes we continued chatting in desultory fashion. Then the conversation petered out. I made a few observations in re the scenic effects, featuring the twilight hush, the peeping stars, and the soft glimmer of the waters of the lake, and she said yes. Something rustled in the bushes in front of us, and I advanced the theory that it was possibly a weasel, and she said it might be. But it was plain that the girl was distraite, and I considered it best to waste no more time.
“Well, old thing,” I said, “I’ve heard all about your little dust-up. So those wedding bells are not going to ring out, what?”
“No.”
“Definitely over, is it?”
“Yes.”