“Oh, Charlie,” she exclaimed, striking at the grass with her parasol, “I hope you are not going to talk any nonsense.”
“It all depends,” I replied, gravely, “on what you call nonsense.”
“Flattery is nonsense, and compliments, and personal remarks.”
“Dear Conny, I haven’t flattered you?”
“See how fine the trees look, and the sky. Let us talk about Wordsworth.”
“I’d rather talk about you.”
“I hope you won’t.”
“Why? A man mayn’t marry his grandmother, but it is nowhere written that a man mayn’t talk of his cousin.”
She laughed at this, but made no reply. Though she had answered me pretty briskly, I was nevertheless struck by her air, which was at once subdued and uneasy.
“What are you thinking about, Conny?”