What did you love me for ?' 'It might have been for your mouth ?' 'Well, what about my mouth ?' 'I thought it was a passable mouth enough----' 'That's not very comforting.' 'With a pretty pout and sweet lips; but actually, nothing more than what everybody has.' 'Don't make up things out of your head as you go on, there's a dear Stephen.

Now--what--did--you--love--me--for ?' 'Perhaps, 'twas for your neck and hair; though I am not sure: or for your idle blood, that did nothing but wander away from your cheeks and back again; but I am not sure.

Or your hands and arms, that they eclipsed all other hands and arms; or your feet, that they played about under your dress like little mice; or your tongue, that it was of a dear delicate tone.

But I am not altogether sure.' 'Ah, that's pretty to say; but I don't care for your love, if it made a mere flat picture of me in that way, and not being sure, and such cold reasoning; but what you FELT I was, you know, Stephen' (at this a stealthy laugh and frisky look into his face), 'when you said to yourself, "I'll certainly love that young lady."' 'I never said it.' 'When you said to yourself, then, "I never will love that young lady."' 'I didn't say that, either.' 'Then was it, "I suppose I must love that young lady ?"' 'No.' 'What, then ?' ''Twas much more fluctuating--not so definite.' 'Tell me; do, do.' 'It was that I ought not to think about you if I loved you truly.' 'Ah, that I don't understand.

There's no getting it out of you.