"Nobody would need a God or a philosophy," supplemented Sophy.
"But as it is, they are most necessary," said Olive seriously. "Which is it with you, Sophy?"
"Both," replied Sophy. She was not smiling now.
"With me," said Olive, "it's first one and then the other. I'm afraid I've a very fwivolous nature, Sophy. I can't seem to keep to one thing, all the time. But you, now...."
She gazed again at Sophy with that affectionate, meditative curiosity.
"You seem made for a gwande passion, Sophy. And yet...." She hesitated; then went on quickly: "Now do forgive me ... but, somehow, I don't feel as if you'd found it ... even now."
This "even now" sent the blood to Sophy's face. She sat very still, looking at the monogram on one of the brushes with which she had been playing as Olive talked.
"Are you vexed, darling? You mustn't be vexed. It's only because I'm so twuly fond of you. Now Mr. Loring is awfully nice, and immensely good-looking, and ... and all that. But...." She hesitated again, then went on as before: "The twuth is, Sophy—that he's much more the sort of man I might fancy, than your sort. He's ... he's ... you see, he stwikes me as too fwivolous for you, you sewious darling!"
Sophy said, in a flat, tired voice:
"Don't you mean he's too—young for me, Olive?"