Besides, he has the same facility with a girl that he has with everything else he tries; his pen--you know how infernally clever he is; and he can make good verse, and write witty jingles, and he can carry home with him any opera and play it decently, too, with the proper harmonies.

Anything he finds amusing he is clever with--dogs, horses, pen, brush, music, women"-- that was too malicious, for Sylvia had flushed up painfully, and Grace Ferrall dropped her gloved hand on the hand of the girl beside her: "Child, child," she said, "he is not that sort; no decent man ever is unless the girl is too." Sylvia, sitting up very straight in her furs, said: "He found me anything but difficult--if that's what you mean." "I don't.

Please don't be vexed, dear.

I plague everybody when I see an opening.

There's really only one thing that worries me about it all." "What is that ?" asked Sylvia without interest.
"It's that you might be tempted to care a little for him, which, being useless, might be unwise." "I am ...