“Of course I know,” said Agatha, her eyes wandering uneasily.
“Of course you do not know; you cannot see yourself as others see you. For instance, you have never thought of yourself as a golden idol.”
“But that is absurd. You are quite mistaken about me.”
“Perhaps so. I know, however, that your face is not really made of gold and that it has not the same charm for you that it has for others—for me.”
“I must go,” said Agatha, suddenly in haste.
“When shall we meet again?”
“I don’t know,” she said, with a growing sense of alarm. “I really must go.”
“Believe me, your hurry is only imaginary. Do you fancy that you are behaving in a manner of quite ubdued ardor that affected Agatha strangely.
“But first tell me whether it is new to you or not.”
“It is not an emotion at all. I did not say that it was.”