"I thought he needed a girl friend," he said. "There's more in life than books and beer."
"You pander," she chuckled. "I'll bet you gloated when you found we were living in sin."
He shrugged. "If you can call it sin. Actually, Bruce was a very domestic type. I hoped you'd marry him."
"Sure," she said. "So I'm a very domestic type too, aren't I—ain't I—Bob, I know you don't like to dance, and your dancing is awful, but shall we try it just once before dinner?"
Afterward, when brandy and coffee were completing the meal, she said: "I'm still not sure if I was in love with Bruce or not. I always liked him. I think I was beginning to love him."
"I should imagine it would be hard not to, under the circumstances."
"He was the first man I ever knew who was—(a)—" she ticked the points off on her fingers—"interesting; which the solid citizens back in Ohio were not, not to me anyway—(b) reliable, which the local Bohemians are not."
"Please! Call me what else you will, but not a Berkeley Bohemian."
"You don't count. You're in a classification all by yourself. 'Reliable' was the wrong word. What do I mean? Faithful; steady; loving. I guess that's it. Loving—not himself, like most of these perpetual undergraduates; not—whatever you love, Bob, there must be something but I've never found out what unless it's that sailboat of yours. Bruce was loving of me. Loving all the world, but including me."