‘With really rude people one knows where one is. Their amiability means true friendship and true approval. With your suave, elegant, charming sort smiles may mean anything or nothing. One never knows where one is. “Mind you come again soon,” you tell me, ever so pleasantly. And the very instant before you have said exactly the same thing, in the same cordial inflection, with the same inviting smile, to some woman whom I know you intensely dislike, and only allow inside the house on sufferance. Now, what am I to think?’ Gundred began to feel quite distressed. ‘But, Kingston,’ she cried, ‘one must be civil. One simply must. Why do you attack me like this? What have I done?’ ‘You are such a beautiful little icicle,’ answered her lover. ‘Will you never thaw? You are an icicle inside an iron safe. How can one get at you to thaw you?’ ‘How utterly absurd you are, Kingston! Haven’t I given you the key? Besides--oh, I’m not an icicle; I’m not a bit of an icicle. Only--well, what is it you want?’ ‘Be quite, quite honest for a minute, Gundred. Strip your soul stark, and tell me whether you love me.’ ‘Oh, don’t hold my hands like that. It’s so hot....’ ‘You are always cool, my dear--a capital refrigerator you are.’ ‘Kingston, you are unkind this afternoon.’ ‘Well, what about my answer? Do you really love me, Gundred?’ Gundred still shirked the inquisition, though secretly she enjoyed it. ‘I am engaged to you,’ she answered. ‘That is the muffled up, overdressed sort of thing you always say,’ replied Kingston. ‘Give me the bare, naked truth. Do you truly love me, Gundred?’ She turned upon him with a flash of inspiration. ‘You would never ask me such a question if you weren’t sure of your answer already,’ she cried. ‘Perhaps not, but give it me all the same. It’s not enough to know a thing; one wants to be told it sometimes.’ ‘Oh, that is just like a silly woman--never believing a man cares for her unless he goes on telling her so twice a minute. Oh, Kingston, don’t let us be so childish. These things don’t need to be talked about. I hate talking about them. It isn’t decent. The more one feels the less one should say. Only kitchen-maids chatter about their love affairs, and wear their hearts on their sleeves.’ ‘Anyhow, that’s better than wearing it in someone else’s pocket, as so many others do.... Gundred, does your soul never take off its stays? Does it always live in public, on view, in full Court dress and train and feathers?’ ‘Kingston--dear Kingston, I think you must be a little bilious. I am not always in public. Here I am alone with you--yes?’ ‘Alone? Oh dear, no! You are always acting, always posing to half a hundred people in the room whom I can’t see. They prevent you from ever speaking honestly to me, as I speak to you. They dictate the way you walk, the chair you sit in, every word and action of your day.’