"No, Tony. To talk of our friend. He interests me tremendously."

"I'm glad to hear it," said I.

We entered the rose garden heavy with the full August blooms.

"Well, my dear," said I. "Talk away."

"If you have a bit of sense in you, it would be you who would talk. If
you were a bit _simpatico_ you would at once set the key of the
conversation."

"All of which implied abuse means that you're dying to know, through the
medium of subtle and psychological dialogue, which is entirely beyond my
brain power, whether you're not just on the verge of wondering if you're
not on the verge of falling in love with Colonel Lackaday."

"You put it with your usual direct brutality----"

"Well," said I. "Are you?"

"Am I what?"

"Dying to know etcetera, etcetera--I am not addicted to vain repetition."

She sighed, tried to pick a black crimson Victor Hugo, pricked her fingers
and said "Damn!" With my penknife I cut the stalk and handed her the rose,
which she pinned on her blouse.