I could remember how he used to take both the letters of invitation and his refusals and send them to my mother, commenting on them as he read.

That was always followed by a pretty little love scene, during which my mother would express her regret that he was deprived of a pleasure; and he always answered that the only pleasure he had was to be with her.
Nor do I believe that state of things would ever have changed but for Miss Reinhart.

Now, when these letters came and he would read them with knitted brow, she would inquire gently, ah, and with such sweet, seductive sweetness, if anything in his letters had put him out.
"No," he would answer with a sigh.

"Oh, no! There is nothing in my letters to annoy me--just the contrary.

I ought to feel delighted.