"Forgive me," he murmured into the curls about her ear. "But you're a wonderful thing!"
"Am I?" she laughed, but with a sort of patient indifference.
"I'm mad about you."
"Are you?"
"I wish I dared to tell you that I love you."
"I hope you won't."
"Men are always telling you that?"
"No—not always—once or twice." She was so far away, though in his arms, that her voice seemed to come to him across a long wire.
"Did you love any of them?"
"No."