"See here," he said, "has Imogen been hurting you again?"
"No, Jack, oh no;—I'm sure she doesn't mean to hurt."
"What did she say to you just now?"
"Well, Jack, you did bring it upon yourself, and upon me"—
"What was it?"
"She said that she couldn't bear to see her white flower—that's I, you know,"—Mary blushed even deeper in repeating the metaphor—"used for unworthy ends. She meant, of course, I see that,—she meant that what she said at lunch was for you and not for me. I'm sure that Imogen means to be kind—always."
"I believe she does."
"I'm glad that you feel that, too, Jack. It is so horrible to see oneself as—oh, really disloyal sometimes."
"You need never feel that, Mary."
"Oh, but I do. And now, when everything, every one, seems turning against Imogen! And she has seemed different;—yet for two years she has been a revelation of everything noble to me."