He seated himself on the other arm of the sofa:
"Did you adore him?"
"At first. He was a celebrity. He did write some pretty things."
"What woke you up?"
She blushed.
"I thought so," observed Desboro.
"Thought what?"
"That he came out of his trance and made love to you."
"How did you know? Wasn't it dreadful! And he'd always told me that he had never experienced an emotion except when adoring the moon. He was a very dreadful young man—perfectly horrid in his ideas—and I sent him about his business very quickly; and I remember being a little frightened and watching him from the window as he walked off down the street in his soiled drab overcoat and the derby hat on his frizzly hair, and his trousers too high on his ankles——"
Desboro was so immensely amused at the picture she drew that her pretty brows unbent and she smiled, too.