“I’m sorry you can’t trust me,” he laughed.
“So am I,” was the regretful response. “It is terrible to have a friend both a—a prevaricator and a—a—a——”
“Embezzler,” he suggested helpfully. “Yes, it is bad. ‘Love Sonnets from the Portuguese,’” he continued, reading the title. “May I ask if you were going to take this to church with you?”
“I hadn’t thought of it. I suppose, like most men, you consider them silly and sentimental,” she challenged.
He shook his head.
“Sweet and sentimental, rather,” he replied.
“You could hardly be expected to care for them, I suppose,” she said. “Your tastes, if I recollect aright, run rather toward ‘The Ingoldsby Legends’!”
“That is indeed unkind,” he murmured sorrowfully. “No, I am very fond of these, this one especially; if it were not Sunday I would read it.”
“What has Sunday got to do with it?” she asked.