"I was bored."
"I thought you were having a good time with Page."
"He's amusing, but not interesting. But Alice always puts the most interesting man where I can't talk to him."
"Oh, does she? Who was the interesting man to-night—the poet?"
"Poet! The rude Englishman, of course."
"Rude, was he? I thought he was gallant. He bolted off after you in no time."
"He was bored by your silly metaphysics. I kept thinking all the time you and Page were arguing, about Goethe's picture of the meta- physician—an ass led round by the nose in the midst of a barren plot of ground, while all round him are green fields that he never sees!"
"You flatter us. But where were the green fields to-night? Is Crayven a green field?"
"Not exactly. But something out-of-doors—natural and primitive."
"Hello, you've fallen in love with him! Any man is natural and primitive. The difficulty is to be anything else. But I can tell you, Crayven isn't primitive—he's only limited."
"I thought you liked him."
"No, not much. He's rather dry."
"He hasn't a free-flowing temperament, and doesn't like either whisky or philosophy—is that what you mean?"
