not just scraped on, besides the chicken in aspic, dark with truffles, the small cream cheeses, and wild-strawberry jam. "Here on the grass," Nick had decreed. "I don't like your quaint, delightful dining room."
"Polite!"
"Thank God we're not that any more. Doesn't it seem funny, now, that we hated each other so at first that every word was the essence of politeness?"
"Cold, cold politeness. But I never hated you. I simply considered you a young man so handsome that you would probably bore me to death."
"You turn my head."
She gave him a glance. "You wound me by your dislike of my beautiful dining room."
"Yes, I do! What a joke on the people who don't realize that you did it with your tongue in your cheek. As a delicate burlesque, it's perfect—every detail. The ears of corn hung from the ceiling, the infant pugilist in pantalettes over the mantelpiece, ready to sock some
