A madman letting off fireworks in a gunpowder factory plays a less dangerous game.
Presently she joined me and ran her arm through mine.
"I'll write to Dale this afternoon," she said.

"Don't let us talk of it any more now.

You are tired out.

It's time for you to go and lie down.
I'll walk with you up the hill." It has come to this, that I must lie down for some hours during the day lest I should fall to pieces.
"I suppose I'll have to," I laughed.

"What a thing it is to have the wits of a man and the strength of a baby." She pressed my arm and said in her low caressing voice which I had not heard for many weeks: "I shouldn't be so proud of those man's wits, if I were you." I knew she said it playfully with reference to masculine non-perception of the feminine; but I chose to take it broadly.
"My dear Lola," said I, "it has been borne in upon me that I am the most witless fool that the unwisdom of generations of English country squires has ever succeeded in producing." "Don't talk rot," she said, with foolishness in her eyes.
She accompanied me bareheaded in the sunshine to the gate of my hotel.
"Come and dine with me, if you're well enough," she said as we parted.
I assented, and when the evening came I went.