She courtesied. “Oh, pretty enough! But a girl who's talked about has a weakness that's often a fatal one.”
“What is it?”
“It's this: when she's talked about she isn't THERE. That's how they kill her.”
“I'm afraid I don't follow you.”
“Don't you see? If Henrietta—or Mildred—or any of 'em—or some of their mothers—oh, we ALL do it! Well, if any of 'em told you I didn't tie my shoe-strings, and if I were there, so that you could see me, you'd know it wasn't true. Even if I were sitting so that you couldn't see my feet, and couldn't tell whether the strings were tied or not just then, still you could look at me, and see that I wasn't the sort of girl to neglect my shoe-strings. But that isn't the way it happens: they'll get at you when I'm nowhere around and can't remind you of the sort of girl I really am.”
“But you don't do that,” he complained. “You don't remind me you don't even tell me—the sort of girl you really are! I'd like to know.”
“Let's be serious then,” she said, and looked serious enough herself. “Would you honestly like to know?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then, you must be careful.”
“'Careful?'” The word amused him.