Ralph Henry Barbour

“ With me a friendship may grow between a glance and a word, between one meeting and the next, as an Indian juggler’s marigold sprouts and flowers in the passing of a cloud.”
“Such friendship must be a weakly plant,” she replied, lightly; “or, like the juggler’s marigold, merely a thing of the imagination, which has no real existence.”
“Pardon me, the marigold is real enough. I once wore one in my coat, the trickery is in making the audience think it has watched the growth.” ”

“ I fear the first frost of a misunderstanding or the first drought of absence would wither it sadly.”
“Are you unwilling to be convinced?”
“No, so long as it is not against my will,” she laughed.
“Then may I convince you—if I can?”
“Of what?”
“That my friendship, although of magic growth, is sturdy and lasting; a sort of evergreen impervious to both frost and drought, winter and summer.”
“I have heard it said,” she answered, a little mocking light in her blue eyes, “that woman is never able to argue in the abstract. ”

“ Why hesitate in your flattery?”
“As generous as you are kind.”
“I am disappointed in you,” she said, sadly. “Your powers of invention are apparently leaving you.”
“Perhaps it is better to disappoint you than to displease you,” he answered.
“Fancy!” she marveled. “You are absolutely becoming discreet!”
“Have I been guilty of indiscretions?” he asked, smilingly.
“What do you think?” she parried. “My conscience is quite comfortable.”
“Then I shall say nothing to disturb it.”
“Thank you. May I suggest that you are losing sight of the subject before the meeting?” ”