But Esmé Trenor was thunderstruck. A deep and painful colour stained his pallid features. Never before had mortal woman so flouted him. It was unthinkable. It really wouldn’t do. There must be some explanation for this young girl’s monstrous attitude toward offered opportunity.
“I say,” he insisted, still very red, “are you bashful, by any chance?”
Dulcie slowly turned toward him again:
“Sometimes I am bashful; not now.”
“Oh. Then wouldn’t you like to talk to me?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Fancy! And why not, Dulcie?”
“Because I haven’t anything to say to you.”
“Dear child, that is the incentive to all conversation—lack of anything to say. You should practise the art of saying nothing politely.”
“You should have practised it enough to say good morning to me during these last five years,” said Dulcie gravely.