"Beg your pardon," he said, "you spoke to me the first day we met. I handed you your letter!..."
"Oh, but that doesn't count. That was nothing. I really only spoke to you last night, and I don't know you. I'm not in love with you ... no, please be sensible. How can I possibly love you when I don't know you!..."
"I love you, don't I?" he demanded.
"You say so!"
"Well, if I love you, you can love me, can't you. That's simple enough!"
She passed a cup of tea to him. "Do all Irishmen behave like this?" she said.
"I don't know and I don't care. It's the way I behave. I know my mind queer and quick, Eleanor, and when I want a thing, I don't need to go humming and hahhing to see whether I'm sure about it. I want you. I know that for a fact, and there's no need for me to argue about it. I'll not want you any more this day twelvemonth than I want you now, and I won't want you any less. Will you marry me?"
"No!"
"How long will it be before you will marry me, then?"
She threw her hands with a gesture of comical despair. "Really," she said, "you're unbelievable. You seem to think that I must want to marry you merely because you want to marry me. I take no interest whatever in you!..."