"You seem to think that very funny."
"Not a bit."
"Then we are agreed. There is not much fun in our talk."
"You're always so observant. There is not. Short sentences."
"And a soupçon of the unexpressed."
"Which means so very much. When understood?"
She swayed from one side to the other. There was an easterly wind blowing full from the open north door of the Arcade. I looked unhappy. There is an understanding that I shall look unhappy except when I am beating my tambourine with my drumsticks.
"What was I saying before—before you—you know—oh, about our talk, of course, being rather flat and not very profitable?"
"I have no more to say," said I.
"But he was very angry, for in my fall I broke his nose."