"But you, also, did the like to me. Is it a consequence of honest love, Mr. Drogue, when a young man embraces a maiden's lips?"
Her questions had so disconcerted me that I found now no answer to this one.
"I know nothing about love," said I, looking out at the sunlit waters.
"Nor I," said she.
"You seem willing to be schooled," I retorted.
"Not willing, not unwilling. I do not understand men, but am not averse to learning something of their ways. No two seem similar, Mr. Drogue, save in the one matter."
"Which?" I asked bluntly.
"The matter of paying court. All seem to do it naturally, though some take fire quicker, and some seem to burn more ardently than others."
"It pleasures you to be courted? Gallantries suit you? And the flowery phrases suitors use?"
"They pleasurably perplex me. Time passes more agreeably when one is knitting. To be courted is not an unwelcome diversion to any woman, I think. And flowery phrases are pleasant to notice,—like music suitably played, and of which one is conscious though occupied with other matters."