"One doesn't ask things of some women at all," she remarked.

He looked up; she was examining her empty teacup with fixed interest.

"Ask what sort of thing?" he inquired, walking over to the table and
resting his glass on it.

"Oh, I don't know what I meant. Nothing. What is that in your glass? Let
me taste it.... Ugh! It's Scotch!"

She set back the glass with a shudder. After a few moments she picked it
up again and tasted it disdainfully.

"Do you like this?" she demanded with youthful contempt.

"Pretty well," he admitted.

"It tastes something like brandied peaches, doesn't it?"

"I never noticed that it did."

And as he remained smilingly aloof and silent, at intervals,
tentatively, uncertain whether or not she exactly cared for it, she
tasted the iced contents of the tall, frosty glass and watched him where
he sat loosely at ease flicking at sun-moats with the loop of his
riding-crop.

"I'd like to see a typical studio," she said reflectively.