"I think you're restless and discontented."
"What makes you think that?" she asked, curiously, leaning over to him so that the warm curve of her arm pressed his.
He glanced not at her but at her encroaching shoulder. "Because of just that sort of thing."
She snatched her arm away. "I hate you!"
"Better hate me than yourself. As you did that night at the club."
Tears welled up in her eyes. Her chin trembled and there was a soft, heart-thrilling catch in the huskiness of her voice, barely controlled enough to enunciate: "I don't see why you're so mean to me."
"Why, it's a child!" he exclaimed in mock self-reproach. "And I keep forgetting and treating it like a grown-up."
"That's why I love to be with you. I want to be treated that way."
"Oh, no! You merely think you do. In reality you want to be petted and flattered and coddled and approved in all your cunning and silly little ways. That would be very easy. Only—it isn't part of our compact."