Monica laughed that sedate laugh of hers, which always seemed to Pauline like a clock striking, so independent was it of anybody's feelings.
"Monica darling, I don't want to be critical," said Pauline. "But you know sometimes your laugh sounds just a little—a very little self-satisfied."
"I think I am rather self-satisfied," Monica agreed, combing her golden hair away from her high pale forehead. "And Margaret is conceited, and you're twice as sweet as both of us put together."
"Oh, no I'm not, oh, no, no, Monica dearest, I'm not," Pauline contradicted hurriedly. "No, really I'm very horrid. And, you know, when I'm bored I'm sure I show it. Oh dear, I hope the Strettons didn't notice I was bored. Mrs. Stretton was so touching with the things they had brought back from Madeira, and I do hate things people bring back from places like Madeira."
"And when you're not bored with anybody," said Monica, "you're rather apt to make that too obvious also."
"Monica, why are you saying that?" Pauline asked with wide-open eyes.
"Even supposing Guy is in love with you," said Monica, slowly blowing out the candles on the dressing-table as she spoke, so that nothing was left but the rosy gas, "I don't think it's necessary to show him quite so clearly that you're in love with him.
"Monica!"
"Darling little sister, I do so want you ... oh, how can I put it? Well, you know, when you break the time in a trio, as you sometimes do...."
"But I'm not in love with Guy," Pauline interrupted. "At least, oh, Monica, why do you choose a house like this to tell me such things?" she asked with tears and blushes fighting in her countenance.