‘You, Mademoiselle Charvill, are as unlike most of your sex as you can be. "Unless you have eaten a Syrian orange," he was always saying, "you have only a rudimentary idea of what an orange is. “Some day you will be my wife, and it would not be well for either of us to remember that in these unhappy days you and I were separated. ’ ‘Yes, I’m sorry about that,’ Gerald uttered in a rueful tone. He ushered them with an amiable flat hand into a minute apartment with a little gas-stove, a silk crimson-covered sofa, and a bright little table, gay with napery and hot-house flowers. He laughed. Take my advice. "You don't recollect me, I presume?" premised the stranger, taking a seat. I don’t play anything. But he is kind of cute.
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