Mr. Roundjacket smiled.

"Perhaps you are making love to her?" he said.

"Making love?" asked Verty, "what is that?"

"How!" cried the poet, "you don't mean to say you are ignorant of the
nature of that divine sentiment which elevates and ennobles in so
remarkable a degree--hem!--all humanity!"

"Anan!" said Verty, with an inquiring look.

Mr. Roundjacket returned this look for some moments, preserving a
profound silence.

"My young friend," he said at last, "how old are you?"

"Eighteen, _ma mere_ says."

"Who's _mommer_, pray?"

"Mother."

"Oh," said the poet, with some confusion, "the fact is, your
pronunciation--but don't let us discuss that. I was going to say, that
it is impossible for you to have reached your present period of life
without making love to some lady."

Verty looked bewildered, but smiled.