"Mr. Siward," she breathed, "I don't know what I am laughing at; do you?
Is it at you? At myself? At my poor philosophy in shreds and tatters? Is
it some infernal mirth that you seem to be able to kindle in me--for I
never knew a man like you before?"

"You don't know what you were laughing at?" he repeated. "It was
something about love--"

"No I don't know why I laughed! I--I don't wish to, Mr. Siward. I do not
desire to laugh at anything you have made me say--anything you may
infer--"

"I don't infer--"

"You do! You made me say something--about my being ignorant of deep, of
violent emotion, when I had just informed you that I am thoroughly,
thoroughly in love--"

"Did I make you say all that, Miss Landis?"

"You did. Then you laughed and made me laugh too. Then you--"

"What did I do then?" he asked, far too humbly.

"You--you infer that I am either not in love or incapable of it, or too
ignorant of it to know what I'm talking about. That, Mr. Siward, is what
you have done to me to-night."

"I--I'm sorry--"