"Oh, Clive!" she said, "what are you going to do about it? And why do you gaze at me so oddly?—as though I were angry or disconcerted. I'm not. I'm happy. I'm crazy about this new relation of ours. It makes you more interesting than I ever dreamed even you could be—"
"You know," he said almost grimly, "if you are going to take it like this—"
"Take what?"
"The knowledge that—"
"That you are in love with me? Then you are! Oh, Clive, Clive! You dear, sweet, funny boy! And you've told me so, haven't you? Or it amounts to that; doesn't it?"
"Yes; I love you."
She leaned swiftly toward him, sparkling, flushed, radiant, tender:
"You dear boy! I'm not really laughing at you. I'm laughing—I don't know why: happiness—excitement—pride—I don't know.... Do you suppose it actually is love? It won't make you unhappy, will it? Besides you can be very busy trying to win me.
That will be exciting enough for both of us, won't it?"
"Yes—if I try."