"Oh goodness! fancy speaking to the one man from five minutes past eleven in June till sundown! It would kill any girl I know."
"Which simply means that you don't know anything at all about yourself."
"I think, Mr. Cheyne, you are the most conceited man I ever met in all my life."
"Then you must have been in a nunnery from your birth till now."
"Are you going to talk in this horrible way for the remainder of my hour and a half, or are you going to take me for a nice comfortable walk through the park and tell me things?"
Said he:
"Comfort? comfort, scorned of devils! this is truth the poet sings, That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things."
"But, Mr. Cheyne, have the goodness to remember I am not of the class of persons the poet sings of."
"No. You are an angel."
"I declare you've wasted another five minutes in this foolish way. I'll go home."