“I told myself so. And when I tell myself something very solemnly, I can’t be anything but myself, and I must be speaking the truth.”
“But even if you’re a genius—and I suppose you might be—I’m not a genius. I’m clever, but I’m not a genius.”
“No, but you’re the nearest person to being me, and if you’re not a genius, I think you can understand. Oh, Michael,” Stella cried, clasping his arm to her heart, “you do understand, because you never laughed when I told you I was a genius. I’ve told lots of girl-friends, and they laugh and say I’m conceited.”
“Well, you are,” said Michael, feeling bound not to lose the opportunity of impressing Stella with disapproval as well as comprehension.
“I know I am. But I must be to go on being myself. Oh, you darling brother, you do understand me. I’ve longed for someone to understand me. Mother’s only proud of me.”
“I’m not at all proud of you,” said Michael crushingly.
“I don’t want you to be. If you were proud of me, you’d think I belonged to you, and I don’t ever want to belong to anybody.”
“I shouldn’t think you ever would,” said Michael encouragingly, as they paced the sensuous mossy path in a rapture of avowals. “I should think you’d frighten anybody except me. But why do you fall in love, then?”
“Oh, because I want to make people die with despair.”
“Great Scott, you are an unearthly kid.”