had me beaten, because I'd always thought that a person either had to be
stupid so that he didn't _know_ he was saying something everybody else
had said, or else not say it, even if he wanted to, ever so much, and it
was just what he meant."

"Don't you think maybe you're too much bothered about other people,
anyhow?" he suggested, mildly; "whether they're stupid or have said
things or not? What difference does it make, if it's a question of what
you yourself feel? I'd be just as satisfied if you gave _all_ your time
to discovering the wonderful possibilities in what I say. It would give
me a chance to conceal the fact that I get all out of breath trying to
follow what you mean."

This surprised her into a sudden laugh, outright and ringing. He looked
down at her sparkling face, brilliant in its mirth as a child's, and
said seriously, "You must instantly think of something perfectly prosaic
and commonplace to say, or I shall be forced to take you in my arms and
kiss you a great many times, which might have Lord knows what effect on
that gloomy-minded ticket-seller back of us who already has his
suspicions."

She rose instantly to the possibilities and said smoothly, swiftly,
whimsically, with the accent of drollery, "I'm very particular about
what sort of frying-pan I use. I insist on having a separate one for the
_fritures_ of fish, and another for the omelets, used only for that: I'm
a very fine and conscientious housekeeper, I'd have you know, and all
the while we lived in Bayonne I ran the house because Mother never got
used to French housekeeping ways. I was the one who went to market . . .
oh, the gorgeous things you get in the Bayonne market, near enough
Spain, you know, for real Malaga grapes with the aroma still on them,