“What’s that got to do with it?”
“Everything.”
“You didn’t know yourself, I’m afraid,” she remarked. “You thought you were a man of some—some depth of feeling, some constancy, a man whose—whose regard a girl would value, instead of being——”
“Just a poor devil who worships the ground you tread on.”
Dora laughed scornfully.
“Second edition!” said she. “The first dedicated to Miss Travers.”
And then Charlie (and it is thing’s like these which shake that faith in human nature that we try to cling to) said in a low but quite distinct voice:
“Oh, d——n Miss Travers!”
Dora shot—it almost looked as if something had shot her, as it used, in old days, Miss Zazel—up from her seat.
“I thought I was talking to a gentleman,” said she, “I suppose you’ll use that—expression—about me in a week.”