“Mr. Siward,” she breathed, “I don't know what I am laughing at; do you? Is it at you? At myself? At my poor philosophy in shreds and tatters? Is it some infernal mirth that you seem to be able to kindle in me—for I never knew a man like you before?”
“You don't know what you were laughing at?” he repeated. “It was something about love—”
“No I don't know why I laughed! I—I don't wish to, Mr. Siward. I do not desire to laugh at anything you have made me say—anything you may infer—”
“I don't infer—”
“You do! You made me say something—about my being ignorant of deep, of violent emotion, when I had just informed you that I am thoroughly, thoroughly in love—”
“Did I make you say all that, Miss Landis?”
“You did. Then you laughed and made me laugh too. Then you—”
“What did I do then?” he asked, far too humbly.
“You—you infer that I am either not in love or incapable of it, or too ignorant of it to know what I'm talking about. That, Mr. Siward, is what you have done to me to-night.”
“I—I'm sorry—”