"What sort of books do you find so wearisome?"
"Oh, all sorts. There's not much to choose between them."
"Do you really think that?"
"Of course I do, or I shouldn't say it. I'm not the sort of man to say what I don't mean. I thought you had found that out long ago."
"I don't think I have thought much about it."
"I thought as much. It appears that I am of no account with you, Madeline. And yet I had hoped to be your husband. But devotion is lost, affection is thrown away, the burning hope of years is trampled upon."
"I thought we were to let that matter drop, Gervase, until we had had more time to think it over?"
"But I don't want more time, Madeline. My mind is quite made up. If I wait a year—ten years—it will be all the same. For me there is only one woman in the world, and her name is Madeline Grover."
"It is very kind of you to say so, Gervase, and I really feel very much honoured. But, you see, I have only known you about a week."
"Oh, Madeline, how can you say that? We have known each other for years."