“I never knew anybody so charmingly interested in flowers,” he said with smiling malice.
She understood, laughed, turned to him.
“I’m interested, also, to hear how your novel is progressing,” she said.
“It isn’t.”
“Haven’t you worked?” she inquired with sweet concern.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” he said deliberately, “my mind is too full of you to contain anything else.”
A pause: “Then,” she said, “you had better not see me until you feel inclined to resume work.”
“You don’t seem to care very much,” he remarked.