"Virginia,"--his voice was urgent--"I will be divinely pompous."

That was so like him. He always tried to safeguard the simplest, most
sincere moments of his life by inverted commas. It was a little trick
that always irritated her.

"What an artist you are," she remarked acidly.

"Yes, indeed," he assented, smiling her out of her irritation. And then:
"I have known you, Virginia, ever since I can remember."

"You told me that the first time we met."

"It is still true."

"How magnificent."

It was her turn now to ward off what she was longing for. To be serious
with Matthew was a form of disarmament you always regretted.

"And knowing you as I do, I recognise the crusading light in your eye
and I must point out to you that your altruistic excursions have not
always ended by tidying up the situation."

"Alas, no."

"Now, why plunge into the eternal triangle? There is really no rôle for
you unless you propose to supplant the cow. What, by the way, is her
name?"