"You are hard."
"I am hard."
"Rita! For God's sake, don't marry that man! You don't love him—you know you don't. At times you feel you can hardly endure him. You'll be miserable—in every way. And I—At least I can give you material happiness."
She smiled—a cold, enigmatic smile that made her face seem her grandmother's own peering through a radiant mask of youth. She glanced away, around—"Ah! there are mamma and Augusta Burke." And she left him to join them.
He wandered out of the garden, through the thronged corridors, into the street, knocking against people, seeing no one, not heeding the frequent salutations. He went to the Wyandotte, to Craig's tawdry, dingy sitting-room, its disorder now apparently beyond possibility of righting. Craig, his coat and waistcoat off, his detachable cuffs on the floor, was burrowing into masses of huge law-books.
"Clear out," said he curtly; "I'm busy."
Grant plumped himself into a chair. "Josh," cried he desperately, "you must marry that girl. She's just the one for you. I love her, and her happiness is dear to me."
Craig gave him an amused look. "However did she persuade you to come here and say that?" he inquired.
"She didn't persuade me. She didn't mention it. All she said was that she had wiped me off the slate even as a friend."
Craig laughed uproariously. "THAT was how she did it—eh? She's a deep one."