Then he speaks with a rather sarcastic smile.
"I confess myself puzzled; if _you_ were dying to go, and _he_ were dying to take you, how comes it that you are sitting at the present moment on this bench ?" I can give no satisfactory answer to this query, so take refuge in a smile.
"I see," say I, tartly, "that you have still your old trick of asking questions.

I wish that you would try to get the better of it; it is very disadvantageous to you, and very trying to other people!" He takes this severe set-down in silence.
The trees that surround the garden are slowly darkening.

The shadows that intervene between the round masses of the sycamore-leaves deepen, deepen.

A bat flitters dumbly by.

Vick, to whose faith all things seem possible, runs sharply barking and racing after it.