“For all those pretty words,” she said, “love still lies sleeping.”

“Perhaps my arm around your waist—­”

“Perhaps.”

“So?”

“Yes.”

And, after a silence: 

“Has love stirred?”

“Love sleeps the sounder.”

“And if I touched your lips?”

“Best not.”

“Why?”

“I’m sure that love would yawn.”

Chilled, for unconsciously I had begun to find in this child-play an interest unexpected, I dropped her unresisting fingers.

“Upon my word,” I said, almost irritably, “I can believe you when you say you never mean to wed.”

“But I don’t say it,” she protested.

“What?  You have a mind to wed?”

“Nor did I say that, either,” she said, laughing.

“Then what the deuce do you say?”

“Nothing, unless I’m entreated politely.”

“I entreat you, cousin, most politely,” I said.

“Then I may tell you that, though I trouble my head nothing as to wedlock, I am betrothed.”

“Betrothed!” I repeated, angrily disappointed, yet I could not think why.

“Yes—­pledged.”

“To whom?”

“To a man, silly.”

“A man!”

“With two legs, two arms, and a head, cousin.”

“You ... love him?”

“No,” she said, serenely.  “It’s only to wed and settle down some day.”

“You don’t love him?”

“No,” she repeated, a trifle impatiently.

“And you mean to wed him?”

“Listen to the boy!” she exclaimed.  “I’ve told him ten times that I am betrothed, which means a wedding.  I am not one of those who break paroles.”

“Oh ... you are now free on parole.”

“Prisoner on parole,” she said, lightly.  “I’m to name the day o’ punishment, and I promise you it will not be soon.”

“Dorothy,” I said, “suppose in the mean time you fell in love?”

“I’d like to,” she said, sincerely.

“But—­but what would you do then?”

“Love, silly!”

“And ... marry?”

“Marry him whom I have promised.”

“But you would be wretched!”

“Why?  I can’t fancy wedding one I love.  I should be ashamed, I think.  I—­if I loved I should not want the man I loved to touch me—­not with gloves.”

“You little fool!” I said.  “You don’t know what you say.”

“Yes, I do!” she cried, hotly.  “Once there was a captain from Boston; I adored him.  And once he kissed my hand and I hated him!”

“I wish I’d been there,” I muttered.

She, waving her fan to and fro, continued:  “I often think of splendid men, and, dreaming in the sunshine, sometimes I adore them.  But always these day-dream heroes keep their distance; and we talk and talk, and plan to do great good in the world, until I fall a-napping....  Heigho!  I’m yawning now.”  She covered her face with her fan and leaned back against a pillar, crossing her feet.  “Tell me about London,” she said.  But I knew no more than she.