"Not sneering—chuckling. My dear, what has Clare—oh, yes, she's your dearest friend—but what has any friend, any woman, got to say to us two? We're going to get married."
"We're not. It's no good, Roger." Alwynne spoke slowly and emphatically, as one explaining things to a foreigner. "Why won't you understand? Clare wants me. We've been friends for years."
"Two years!" he interjected contemptuously.
"Well! You needn't talk! I've known you two months," she flashed out. "Do you think I'm going to desert Clare for you, even if—even if——" She stopped suddenly.
He beamed.
"You do. Don't you, darling?" he said.
"I don't. I don't. I don't want to. I mustn't. I don't know why I'm even talking to you like this. It's ridiculous. Of course, there can never be any one but Clare."
"Yes, it is ridiculous," he said impatiently.
She faced him angrily.
"Yes, very ridiculous, isn't it? Not to leave a person in the lurch—a person whom you love dearly, and who loves you. You can laugh. It's easy to laugh at women being friends. Men always do. They think it funny, to pretend women are always catty, and spiteful, and disloyal to each other."