He looked at his sister critically. She was a handsome girl. The face a trifle hard, perhaps, but not every man goes in for melting beauty; some look for character—so thought her brother.
Bitter laughter shaped on her lips at her brother's suggestion; a woman ever takes defeat badly; she replied:
"I am not his sort; I am not the kind of woman he writes about! He can dissect me, probably has done so, as easily as you can carve a pigeon. Besides, he's dead gone on Mabel."
"Curse him!"
"By all means. But whatever you do, don't fear him. Outwardly he is as cold as ice; inside there is a raging volcano. Women don't hanker after that kind of love, if there's anything more outwardly tempestuous: like yourself. They are apt to judge of the surface."
"Oh! It's true; we don't want to mince words. That's where the average woman makes a fool of herself; where your chance comes in. Masters is worth fifty of you, but there are no scales to balance or register values of that kind."
"Thanks again!"
"Oh, we know it, you and I. We can speak to each other without putting foot on the soft pedal. He has a nature which would make him stick to a woman till, literally, death did them part. Yours is of the type which would prompt thoughts of a separation the moment the woman's bank balance ran out."
"And you?"