"Certainly not," she said indignantly. "You don't give me much of your confidence, but I know you better than to think such a thing. I wish you would tell me more of what is going on. Let me be your friend, and not merely your guest. Talk to me as you would to—Miss McCrae."
It was the first time she had spoken to him of Sheila. It was her challenge. She would be on the same footing.
"Sheila's different," he replied. "Sheila's one of us. I've known her for years. She's a good deal like a sister."
"Oh," she said, "a sister?"
To have saved her immortal soul she could not have kept the note of sceptical interrogation from the word. He laughed.
"Yes, a sister. Why, great Scott! you didn't think I was in love with her, did you, just because I call her by her first name? I think everything of her, but not in that way. She's a thousand times too good for me. Besides, she knows me too well. That's usually fatal to sentiment. That's why no man is a hero to his wife."
"How do you know he isn't? Kitty Wade simply worships her husband."
"Maybe. But I'll bet his pedestal isn't nearly so high as it was before they were married. When you marry, Miss Burnaby"—he smiled at her frankly—"you will occupy the pedestal yourself."
"Doesn't your rule work both ways?" she laughed.
"I won't admit it—to you, anyway."