They did not sense the same things--did not even speak the same language.

Trenby took everything quite literally--the obvious surface meaning of the words, and the delicate nuances of speech, the significant inflections interwoven with it, meant about as much to him as the frail Venetian glass, the dainty porcelain figures of old Bristol or Chelsea ware, would mean to the proverbial bull in a china-shop.
"And now, sweetheart," he went on, rather conventionally, "when will you come to see my mother?
She will be longing to meet you." Nan shuddered inwardly.

Of course she knew one always _did_ ultimately meet one's future mother-in-law, but the prompt and dutiful way in which Roger brought out his suggestion seemed like a sentence culled from some Early Victorian book.

Certainly it was altogether alien to Nan's ultra-modern, semi-Bohemian notions.
"Suppose you come to lunch to-morrow?
I should like you to meet her as soon as possible." There was something just the least bit didactic in the latter part of the sentence, a hint of the proprietary note.

Nan recoiled from it instinctively.
"No, not to-morrow," she exclaimed hastily.