An expression of grim satire passed over Norman's face. Said he: "She despised me, too."
"Yes, she did," said Tetlow. "And both of us were certainly greatly her superiors—in every substantial way. It seemed to me most—most——"
"Most impertinent of her?" suggested Norman.
"Precisely. Most impertinent."
"Rather say, ignorant and small. My dear Tetlow, let me tell you something. Anybody, however insignificant, can be loved. To be loved means nothing, except possibly a hallucination in the brain of the lover. But to love—that's another matter. Only a great soul is capable of a great love."
"That is true," murmured Tetlow sentimentally, preening in a quiet, gentle way.
Said Norman sententiously: "You stopped loving. It was I that kept on."
Tetlow looked uncomfortable. "Yes—yes," he said. "But we were talking of her—of her not appreciating the love she got. And I was about to say—" Earnestly—"Fred, she's not to be blamed for her folly! She's very, very young—and has all the weaknesses and vanities of youth——"
"Here we are," interrupted Norman.
The hansom had stopped in Forty-second Street before the deserted but still brilliantly lighted entrances to the great hotel. Norman sprang out so lightly and surely that Tetlow wondered how it was possible for this to be the man who had been racketing and roistering day after day, night after night for nearly a week. He helped the heavy and awkward Tetlow to descend, said: