'It's only in stories that people are in love when they marry,' observed Miss Phaeton reflectively.
'Yes, and then it's generally with somebody else,' said I.
'Oh, if you count that!' said she, hitting Ready rather viciously. We bounded forward, and I heard the little groom bumping on the back seat. I am always glad not to be a groom—it's a cup-and-ball sort of life, which must be very wearying.
'Were you ever in love?' she asked, just avoiding a brougham which contained the Duchess of Dexminster. (If, by the way, I have to run into any one, I like it to be a Duchess: you get a much handsomer paragraph.)
'Yes,' said I.
'Often?'
'Oh, not too often, and I always take great care, you know.'
'What of?'
'That it shall be quite out of the question, you know. It's not at all difficult. I only have to avoid persons of moderate means.'
'But aren't you a person of?'
'Exactly. That's why. So I choose either a pauper—when it's impossible—or an heiress—when it's preposterous. See?'
'But don't you ever want to get?' began Miss Phaeton.
'Let's talk about something else,' said I.
'I believe you're humbuggin' me,' said Miss Phaeton.
